


Carry that Weight

by waveofahand



Series: McLennon Angst Series [1]
Category: McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: A terrifying acid trip, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Divergence, Drink Spiking, Heavy Angst, Help!, Implied Daddy Kink, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, John has PTSD too, John is in an emotional freefall..., John is incredibly tender with Paul, Just freaking agony, Kidnapping, M/M, McLennon Fan fiction, Minor use of drugs, Original Female Character - Freeform, PLEASE NOTE TRIGGER WARNINGS WHEN THEY APPEAR, Paul McCartney has PTSD, Paul has a daughter, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-typical reactions to rape, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rubber Soul - Freeform, Sexual Dysfunction, Suicidal Thoughts, The realities of rape, Until he gets stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:08:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 50
Words: 258,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveofahand/pseuds/waveofahand
Summary: A month after receiving their MBE’s Paul McCartney is ready to argue that the Beatles have as much or more power and social influence as those who would like to influence the band. Arrogant? Maybe, but it's no justification for what happens to him after someone spikes his drink during a meet-and-greet with the toffs.  Thus begins a nightmare for him, for the band, and especially for John Lennon and the whole "McLennon" relationship. Note TRIGGER WARNINGS as you see them.This story is ENTIRELY a work of fiction, and a product of my own imagination. I do not own the Beatles and wouldn't wish any of this on them.
Relationships: John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Paul McCartney/Jane Asher, Paul McCartney/Original Female Character - Relationship
Series: McLennon Angst Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2156847
Comments: 1159
Kudos: 690





	1. "I have not seen Mr. McCartney..."

**Author's Note:**

> Hi Guys, sorry to begin the year with a bit of a tough story, but I woke up with this one in my head and, like Cat Stevens said, "I can't keep it in, I gotta let it out." But I apologize because both John and Paul are going to suffer in this one. I don't own the Beatles and this is all simply my imagination gone wild. Anyway...here we go!
> 
> This is BOOK ONE of a TWO BOOK Series. 
> 
> Book TWO is [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478873/chapters/72413073)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After attending a gathering of stuffy MBE's to please Brian, John has had enough. He cues Paul to finish up and meet him in their hotel room. Two hours later, Paul has still not shown up.

They’d been nearly four hours at this latest to-do, and John and Paul were so done with it, and more than ready to call it a night and head up to their hotel room.

Brian had insisted they attend this dinner, reminding them for the millionth time that, “You’re MBE’s now – members of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire. You need to show your faces amid the men who move things behind the scenes. You know, the background influencers who hold the real power.”

For once, even Paul McCartney – who usually supported Brian’s social aspirations for them -- was unpersuaded. He had rather loudly resisted attending this gathering of the titled, the post-nominal-laden, and the well-connected, arguing that titles and post-nominals aside, “We’re pretty well connected ourselves, at this point, yeah? Which one of them has as much social influence as we do? Who, more than any one of us? Why do we have to kiss their arses?”

“That’s hardly a display of humility, Paul, or gratitude for your situation,” Brian had chided. “That’s the sort of remark that gets you called arrogant.”

“ _Phonus bolonus_ ,” Paul smiled at him, working a bit of charm into the tight moment, “it’s only the truth I’m tellin’ Bri, and they’ll only call me arrogant if you repeat it. How much gratitude are we supposed to lay out when we've worked and slaved to get where we are?”

At that point John Lennon, sprawled out on a sofa in a tee shirt and jeans and looking entirely too comfortable to willingly get up and figure out where his tuxedo might be, spoke up in agreement. “Aye, Eppy, this is nonsense. We’re a rock-and-roll band, not bleeding Lordships. You talked us into accepting the MBE, and we’ve done that, but now you’re askin’ us to go socialize with some of the very snobs who objected to us gettin’ it, and threatened to send their little medals back if Her Queenie-ness didn’t remove us from her consideration.”

Paul nodded in agreement. “It’s a good point. Not sure why they even want us there. One day they’re saying Mother Superior’s jumped the gun giving us any notice at all so early in our careers, and the next they’re invitin’ us to smoke and drink and eat caviar with ‘em. Likely all they really want is to gawk at us like we’re animals in a zoo.”

“Aye, like that time in D.C., at the Embassy,” John added. “All they really wanted was to look us over, sniff at us like we’d brought fleas into the place and then pinch our arses – or at least Paul’s.”

“That was no pinch, John,” Paul corrected. “Old bloke was tryin’ slip ‘is finger fully up there, right through me trousers!” 

“I loved it when you just sat down on the steps and refused to budge,” John laughed, recalling the moment. “You were fuming and all they could see was how cute you were. Like an annoyed puppy.”

“Aw, fuck ye, son,” Paul flung at him good-naturedly.

“That’s what I say about goin’ to this stand-up funeral, Eppy. With all the spit in my scouser tongue, I say ‘fook it, and fook them’. I ain’t goin’.”

And yet, here they were – or here John and Paul were – Eppy had decided he could dispense with George and Ritchie’s services for the evening. Ultimately, it had been hard to say no to Brian, who had grown more panicked every hour after having promised to deliver the Messers Lennon and McCartney to the gathering. “Alright, Bri, just this once,” Paul had sighed in surrender.

“Three hours, Eppy,” John warned, taking a serious tone. “Three hours, no more, and then we’re done, right?”

And now nearly four hours had gone by, and John – who had endured all the high-toned faw-faw and veiled insults he could take of an evening – found his way to his partner and slipped a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s ankle it, babe, we’ve put in our time and I’m knackered.”

Paul raised his head from a conversation he’d seemed to find engaging and looked around. “Where’s Brian, then? We should let him know…”

“I thought we’d do an Irish goodbye, you know. Just wave at the room and leave?”

Unable to hide a snicker, Paul nevertheless objected. “Can’t leave without tellin’ Brian, mate. D’be cruel, you know. He worries.”

“Well, I saw him by the bar a bit ago,” John answered, sounding impatient.

“Alright, go on up then. I’ll finish my drink here, say goodnight to Eppy and be right behind you, yeah, love? I’ll grab a couple drinks for us while I’m at the bar.”

“Ah, yer a good man!” Giving his mate a thumbs up, John made his way to their room. He was undressing – flinging his tuxedo jacket and shirt at various corners of the room -- even as he flipped on the radio and turned the dial toward something with a beat. Looking forward to drinks and some down-time with the only person whose company he always preferred, he decided to take a shower.

A half hour later, showered and shaved, and toasty warm in one of the hotel’s thick terry robes, he came into the room and found it empty. There was no sign of Paul.

 _That annoying little butterfly_ , he thought with more fondness than fury. _Probably making sure he shakes every hand and wipes Eppy’s drunken tears before he leaves. And he has the drinks…_

John turned off the radio, settled into one of the two double beds in the room and grabbed a paper and pencil, thinking Paul would be amused to see caricatures of the impossibly stereotypical red-faced Englishmen they’d just wasted too much time with. 

_Because on one level,_ he thought with a smile, _it’s like we’re still kids in school, and we just want to make fun of the toffs._

An hour later, Paul still hadn’t come up, and John was beginning to get seriously annoyed. He wanted Paul. And his drink. And then playtime.

And Paul wasn’t co-operating.

It had been an hour and a half since he’d left the party. _What the hell was going on?_ Sure, he knew. Paul had probably tried to say goodnight to Eppy, and gotten trapped in another feckin’ argument because their manager wanted them to take on some last minute tour in wintertime, and Paul had told him to shove it, and they were probably still bickering about it, with no consideration for John and all of his well-stated needs. 

Picking up the phone he asked to be connected to the bar and politely introduced himself to the voice on the other end. “Can you give me to Mr. Epstein, please, or Mr. McCartney? I think they’re probably standing near you, and drinking too much scotch.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I never saw Mr. McCartney,” came a very mannerly reply. “Mr. Epstein said goodnight about a quarter-hour ago, however, so you might find him in his room.”

John frowned, biting his lip thoughtfully as he thanked the man and rang off. He dialed Brian’s room, and barely waited for Eppy’s greeting before laying into him. “Where the hell is Paul,” he demanded. “I’ve been waiting nearly two hours, now, for him to come up.”

“Where the hell is Paul,” Epstein repeated. “I could ask, ‘where the hell are the _both_ of you?’ You just abandoned the party without acknowledging the hosts, or shaking a single hand, and by the way I wanted to talk to you about –”

Lennon cut him off. “Never mind all that, Eppy, we went to your flippin’ shindig and we made nice-nice with everyone. Send Paul up, now. I don’t even care if he doesn’t have the drinks.”

“I don’t have Paul,” his manager answered in a testy voice. “I haven’t seen him in hours. I _assumed_ he was with you.”

“But…” John grew quiet. He suddenly had a bad feeling, real enough to raise the small hairs on his arms. “He was heading over to the bar, to say goodnight to you, Eppy. He insisted on it, in fact.”

“Well, I never saw him,” Brian’s sounded puzzled. “Perhaps he got waylaid into a conversation.”

“Paul doesn’t get waylaid into conversations; he charms his way out of them.”

Both men were silent. John began to gnaw at his lip. “Feels like somethin’s wrong, Brian, doesn’t it? I don’t like this. Paul doesn’t just disappear.”

“Don’t do that!” Trying to assuage John’s anxiety, Eppy put on a lively tone of voice as he slipped his just-removed shoes back on to his feet. “I’ll go down and find him. I know he was talking about poetry to some old fellow with a monocle earlier tonight. Perhaps they met up again and he's being too polite to the old gentleman. Having trouble getting away.”

“When you find him tell him to get his ass up here,” John ordered, his voice flinty. “He’s no business making anyone worry.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing, John,” Brian said, signing off.

Twenty minutes later, a pacing Lennon heard a knock on his door and ran to open it, “Where’ve you bloody been,” he shouted at Paul, only to find himself face-to-face with Eppy, who was doing a poor job of hiding his concern. In fact, he looked terrified.

“John, I can’t find him. He doesn’t seem to be anywhere.”

John felt his hands begin to tingle and sweat as he released the door handle and drew Brian inside. “What do you mean, anywhere,” he frowned. “Did you ask the concierge? Did you search that little after-bar?”

“Yes, and yes, I did. I looked in the gent’s rooms, I asked the front desk if they’d seen him, and the concierge. I asked every Lord and Sir still there if they’d seen him. It’s like he’s vanished into thin air.” Brian was ringing his hands. “John, you know we’ve talked before about the risk of kidnapping –- it’s why I always want you boys together.”

“No, but…but…” John was pacing the room, running his hands over the belt ties of his robe, as though to soothe himself. “No. He just…he probably met some bird and just, you know, went up to her room with her. His prick’s like a bleedin’ divinin’ rod, after all. He’s probably just havin’ a good shag.”

Brian gave him a skeptical look. “Do you really think that? Would he do that with you waiting for him? Wouldn’t he at least check in on his way?”

They both knew he would. Whatever else Paul was, he wasn’t thoughtless, and he’d never simply let people worry about him.

John licked his lips. When he spoke, his voice was a mere whisper, as though he couldn’t let the words fully out of his mouth, or they might become real.

“Eppy…you don’t…you don’t really think… _kidnapped_?” He felt his knees begin to buckle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On June 17, 1965, a few days after it was announced that the Beatles would be awarded MBE's, 8 men returned their MBE's to the Queen in protest. First time ever in recorded history that anyone had done so.


	2. “I can’t. I can’t lose him…”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul is missing and while Brian Epstein is concerned but calm, John is freaking out. He's certain something is very wrong and that Paul is in trouble, and he can't handle that possibility. Lots of angst here. We have no idea what Paul is going through, yet, but John's suffering, and Brian is as concerned for him as for Paul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, thanks for reading and for the encouraging comments. I had no idea so many people were ready for a Paul-in-Danger story! I think this is going to be a longer and harder slog for us than I'd first imagined. It's bad angst. We'll all have to suffer together.

John reached behind him, grateful to feel a chair to sink into before his knees gave out. He felt himself going into a full-blown panic, head spinning as he contemplated the possibility that Paul -- his Paul! -- might be in real danger. Brian rushed over to him, forcing his head down. “Head between your knees, lad, before you pass out, that’s it. Deep breaths.”

“ _Ohh, God…_ ” Lennon sounded like he was on the verge of vomiting.

“I’ll get you some water…”

“Fuck water, get the police!” John choked out. “God…we have to find him…I need to get dressed and go out. I’ll find him.”

“You need to drink this,” his manager put a glass into his hand. “And we must both calm down. This might be nothing, you know, but if there _is_ something wrong, you’re no help if you fall apart.”

John’s forceful exhales sounded like a bull in full fury; his hand shook as he drank down the water, barely hearing Brian, his eyes still wide with fear. “No, Eppy,” he said as he handed off the glass with a shivery breath. He shook his head, wrapping his arms around himself and slouching forward in shivers. “I’ve felt it. I’ve felt it for nearly all this past hour. Something’s wrong.”

“You can’t know that, John. You’re not psychic.”

“Maybe not, but I know Paul.”

“I think we should both take a moment and consider.”

“There’s nothing to fuckin’ consider, man, call the bleedin’ cops!” John stood up suddenly, wavering a bit and then gathering his strewn-about clothing as he started to get dressed. “You call them while I go down there and look for him.”

Epstein reached out and grabbed his arm, stopping John in his tracks. “Look, John, I am as worried about him as you --”

“You can’t be --”

“Of course, I am!” He shook Lennon’s arm with some force. “But we can’t just go off half-cocked, and getting the police involved here, not yet. What if we’re wrong? What if Paul really is somewhere with some girl? He wouldn’t like seeing it all over the papers that while he was getting his itch scratched, we had the police looking for him. He'd feel a laughing-stock. And we wouldn’t want to give the press even a hint of a rumor that any sort of kidnapping plot might ever exist, or have existed. They’d never stop asking you all about it.”

John glared at Brian, pulling his arm away and getting his shoes.

“And, too,” Epstein continued, speaking plainly, “we’d look damn foolish calling the cops because a 23 year-old man with a reputation for fucking anything in front of him is running two hours late.” He tugged John’s arm again. “ _Think_ , John! By all means, get dressed, just in case we have to go somewhere, but don’t run off alone with some heroic idea in your head of tracking him down. If he shows up and you’re gone, it will just throw _him_ into a panic, and then we’ll be running about like Keystone Kops!” Brian tried a small smile. “Come on, John. Let’s give him a little more time, before we notify the police.”

John pulled his arm out of Brian’s hold – gently this time -- and sat on the edge of the bed. It was too much to think of. No, Paul wouldn’t like it if word got out that he’d caused a fuss because he’d decided to get laid. Something like that had happened once, in America…Minnesota, John remembered, with deputies banging on a hotel door while Paul was trying to finish up with a bird. He’d been furious at the interruption, and even more so that it had made it into the press. “Bad enough we hadn’t finished,” he’d complained, “but Jane had my nuts in a sling over it, too, when she read about it.”

No, John thought. Wouldn’t do to get him in trouble with Jane again.

Not that he believed for a minute that Paul was with someone. He really _didn’t_ believe it, simply because it wasn’t in Paul’s nature to change a plan, once settled. If the notion was to get together in their room with a few drinks, and settle in for the night, then he wouldn’t suddenly go off for a quick shag, unless the bird was Bardot, herself.

And even if he had, he’d likely have shown up, by now.

 _No. Paul should be here. He should be here now_. He knew it. No matter what Eppy said.

John finished tying his laces and reached for his jacket while watching Brian light a cigarette with a slightly trembling hand. Recalling his manager’s tossed-off words -- that John should be prepared ‘just in case we have to go somewhere’ -- John suddenly went stock-still. What was "somewhere"? _Where_ did he mean? Where would they possibly have to go? To a hospital? Because Paul was hurt? To a morgue to identify his body? _God, no_!

The thought rang every alarm bell in Lennon’s memory as he was instantly and vividly transported to the horror of his mother’s death. That’s what it had been like. The cop at the door. The ride…the short ride to hospital that seemed to take forever and yet still brought them, too soon, to that awful place, and that awful moment. “I’m afraid her injuries were too grave…”

Too grave, and then the grave…[Julia, his mother, cold and dead, and forever lost to him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/45597766). Forever.

John’s stomach was roiling as the familiar feelings of fear, dread, and grief struck through him, reverberating in his head and heart, and causing his breath to hold in his throat. _No!_ This can’t happen twice to me…this can’t happen twice in one lifetime, I can’t live through it again. I barely survived losing Julia. _I can’t lose Paul, too! Christ, no! No!_

He buried his face into his jacket and began to weep. It was all too much – the grief for Julia, the fear for Paul – it all became mingled together into one singular unit of unendurable pain, a pain that felt like it would bring John close to madness. He felt the sting of tears and could not stop them, nor stop the horrifying keen that arose from his depths and sounded so like the wail of a trapped and wounded animal that Brian nearly jumped out of his skin to hear it, and hurried to the wailing young man.

“John…” he started.

“No! No, Eppy, _No_!” Lennon’s voice was muffled within his jacket, but his anguish was unmistakable. “I can’t. I can’t lose him…”

Sitting down beside him on the bed, Brian began rubbing small circles on John’s back, gentling his voice. “John, pull yourself together. You can’t break down like this. You don’t even know --”

“ _Help me_!” John cried, shaking his head and moaning in heart-shattering fear. “Help me! Someone help! I can’t. Please… _I can’t_. _I can’t. I can’t_.”

Brian felt useless as he watched John give every bit of himself over to heartbreak. This wouldn’t do, he knew. This already-fragile man could not be permitted to completely fall apart, or plummet into an abyss of grief. His psyche couldn’t be permitted to imagine itself into genuine, full-borne sorrow before anything was truly known. God forbid, Brian thought, if something really had happened to Paul – if he’d been kidnapped, or worse – John would already be so far gone that the news might drive him over a dangerous edge. He might become psychotic, lost, completely.

“Help me…” It was quieter, now, but the moaning went on and on, with John’s head buried in the deep black fabric as he rocked back and forth, like an inconsolable infant. “Oh, help me…”

Brian took a breath and made a decision.

“Alright," he said quietly, using his firmest, most managerial tone. “I’ll call down to the hotel management and ask for the house detective.”

“No!” John raised his head, his expression unlike anything Brian had ever seen before, as vulnerable and openly terrified as a child unable to shake off a nightmare. “No, Brian, you have to _go to them_. We can’t wait!”

“John...love...you’re in no shape to go down there, and I can’t leave you here, like this,” Brian explained as softly as he could. “If we are going to wait on calling the police – and I do think we should – we can at least make sure the hotel has looked everywhere, into places we haven’t thought of.”

John’s breath shuddered from him as he wiped his nose on his sleeve, all but breaking Brian’s heart. “Like where?” he asked, sounding hopeful. “What kinds of places?”

“Well, any sort of place. Perhaps the elevators were too slow for him – you know what he’s like – and he took the stairs, and then slipped because he'd been drinking. That's not impossible to imagine, is it? Maybe he’s lying somewhere with a broken ankle. We’ll make sure everyplace has been searched…every stairwell and the roof...”

John's hopefulness could not be sustained. His fear arose again, smothering it, as he once more buried his head and fresh tears came. “No, he’s gone! He’s gone, I know it! Oh, my God, _what am I going to do without him_?”

With a deep sigh of resignation, and a heart full of fear, Brian moved to the other bed, and picked up the phone.


	3. In the middle of investigation, I break down...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Answering questions about Paul to a hotel detective who is a former cop, and seems to know how the world works, John makes an unexpected confession.

It had been ten minutes since the house detective had left the room, promising John and Brian that if Paul McCartney were anywhere on the hotel premises, they would know within the hour. “Be sure, Mr. Epstein, Mr. Lennon, if he is on this property, we shall find him.”

Neither Mr. Epstein, nor Mr. Lennon felt especially reassured, but they appreciated the bottle of scotch he had left with them, “courtesy of the house.” Brian had poured a short neat dose for John, almost as soon as the liquor had appeared, and helped himself to a belt, as well. Now, noting that John was nearly blind with anxiety -- smoking one cigarette after another as he bounced a knee and groaned within himself every few minutes -- the manager poured him another.

He’d never seen John like this. His boys had known anxiety before, particularly when traveling in bad weather, but such moments had nothing in common with the raw energy coming off of Lennon, who was barely keeping himself together. He'd become quickly furious when the hotel’s detective seemed all-too-casual about Paul’s disappearance for John’s liking. “Well, a young man like that, lots of women all around the place. Likely he’s off enjoying a bit of a tup, after all…”

Lennon had pinned the man with a look of utter contempt and turned to Brian. “If this is our best option, Brian -” he had started.

“Now, then, young man,” the detective had interrupted in a voice that would brook no nonsense. “I’m a retired copper, and there’s no one knows all the nooks and crannies of this place better than I. If your friend is lyin’ somewhere with a bump on his noggin or something, we’ll find him. I’m simply considering all possibilities here, and what might be likely. Be told, if there is any indication that something untoward has occurred – as unlikely as it may be, considering the honored company you’d been keeping tonight, we’ll know that, as well.”

John had curled in on himself at that, closing his eyes and pulling his own hair before running a hand through the disheveled mop. “The 'honored company' we were keeping,” John repeated. “All toffs and commanders and whatzit.” His voice quavered as he turned to Epstein. “You were right, Brian, I should never have left him alone. This is my fault. If I hadn’t been so impatient, so selfish. If I had just let him finish his drink, he’d be here, now. We’d be together…”

“Come, John, I think you’re being too rough on yourself,” Brian said, wishing he’d never scolded John about his wanting the boys to always travel together. All his frustrated words had managed to do was contribute to John’s guilt – his ever-present willingness to find a way to hate himself. “You could just as well argue that this is _my_ fault…if I hadn’t urged you to attend the meeting.”

“In fact,” the investigator, who'd been listening closely added sagely, “You could say that if ye’d stayed in Liverpool and gotten jobs on the docks, you’d nor be in this predicament, too.” He had settled himself in a chair opposite John and was looking at him with a shrewd but respectful eye. He could see the truth and depth of feeling behind John’s outburst and held nothing against him, gentling his voice as he leaned forward. “You could say if only you’d never met, you’d be spared all this anguish, eh? But life is what it is, young man, and here we are. And now, we will deal with whatever is before us, won’t we?”

John had caught the softening of the older man’s tone, and it made him look up. His eyes, wet with tears he could not hold back, connected with the expressive blue eyes before him and saw something there he wasn’t accustomed to seeing in men of his father’s generation. Was it compassion? Empathy? A simple _knowing_ of how the heart worked? Whatever it was, there was no judgement behind it. John suddenly felt as though he'd been fully understood -- a rare thing in his life, and even rarer from such a source. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He brushed a fast-falling tear away with his full hand, like a child, still holding the man’s gaze, and couldn’t stop the words that came tumbling out of him, all unguarded, in a strained and choking voice.

“Please.” He said. “Please, you have to find him. You _have_ to find him. I don’t know where he is, and he’s…you don’t know…Paul can be so stupid sometimes about…he trusts people. He…he’s always too nice. To everybody.” John gulped with difficulty and he seemed unaware that his tears had begun to fall freely. “And to _me_ ,” he sobbed. “To me, too, he’s too nice.” He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “If you can’t find him… God! _Please!_ ” With that call out to heaven, he pulled in on himself again, head down, arms over his stomach, his whole body rocking to and fro. A groan escaped from him that sounded like it had been born within the deepest recess of his soul.

“Please just find him! Or I’m not going to make it. I can’t! He’s…” He looked up again at the older man, his expression woebegone. “He’s _everything_ to me, mister," John confessed. " _He’s my whole world…”_

Brian went to John’s side quickly, kneeling beside him and putting a pristine handkerchief into his hand. He rubbed small, soothing circles on John’s back and whispered as the young man trembled and gulped and tried to pull himself together. “You’re going to make yourself sick, John, and that won’t help Paul if he’s at all in need.”

“It’s true, that,” the investigator said, clearing his throat a bit too loudly, as though to gloss over John’s sobs and take charge of the scene. He pulled out a small notebook. “If you can answer a few questions, son, I’ll gather a crew and we can begin our search. Now then, can you tell me where you saw Mr. McCartney last, and with whom…”

Slowly, with Brian nearby, and cigarettes, and a bit of liquid courage there to fortify, John Lennon managed to puff out his shivery answers to the man’s questions as best he could, burying his own feelings of guilt and terrible foreboding under what felt – at least for the moment – like the most constructive thing he could do. He couldn’t say much for certain. He hadn’t been wearing his glasses, and the room had been full of strangers. But he remembered that Paul had been talking to a man with slicked-back hair and two chins, and that he’d had a few medals on his lapel.

He’d told what he could. Brian hadn’t been able to add much more. They were accustomed to letting Paul work a room while they went about their respective ways, John usually to a corner where he could avoid as many people he didn’t really want to meet as possible, and Brian hanging by the bar, where casual networking could happen. “Paul’s the one who always leaves the room knowing everyone’s name, and what they do. And their wives and kids names, and all that,” John added with a watery smile. “He’s…he’s just...”

“Paul would have been a brilliant diplomat,” Brain finished the thought, giving John an affectionate look that he hoped would hold him steady.

“Yes…he is one.” John whispered.

“A prince’s touch, I’ve heard tell," the detective said, matching Brian’s careful tone.

“Yes,” John agreed, in a firmer voice. “He’s like that. Noble, somehow. A noble scruff.”

With that, the investigator had arisen and shaken their hands, heading out to begin his search. “If the lad is on the property, you will soon see him.”

And now, they were simply waiting, in a dreadful silence that made each tick of the clock sound like a thundering of their own fear. Brian handed John his drink. John sipped it automatically, staring ahead, his eyes seeing nothing before him, his breath coming out in shivers whenever he sighed.

“Perhaps we should call George and Ritchie, get them over here, for you.” Brian said softly.

John was silent for fully half a full minute before he slowly shook his head. “No…” he said in a low voice. “This is mine. I lost Paul. I'm the one who left him. They shouldn’t have to suffer like this, not knowing.” He looked up at Brian. “Not yet…okay?”

Brian's expression said he disagreed, but nodded, and let it go.

As the clock chimed a quarter-hour tone, the phone blared to life, its loud ring puncturing the tense silence and making both men jump. John grabbed at it. “ _Paul!_ Paul, where are you,” he shouted. “Are you alright?”

Brian went quickly to John’s side, pressing his ear near to John’s. Through the receiver he could hear an ugly rasp of a laugh.

“Paul?” John repeated.

The laugh subsided in a leisurely, confident way that made Brian’s skin crawl. “Your little man has a big attitude,” the voice said. “We’ve begun to adjust it for him.”

“What!” Brian hissed. “Who is this, and where is Paul? What have you done with him?”

Again, the laugh, deep and taunting. John’s knuckles were white as he gripped the phone and listened to a voice he’d never heard before. “Tell him, next time we’ll let him stay awake for the party. Unless he behaves. Otherwise, we’re not ‘done’ with him at all, you know.

John pulled the phone away, put it back fully on his own ear. “Where is he,” he bellowed. “ _Where is he?_ ”

“Why, he’s right at your door, Mr. Lennon. Looks like an absolute angel when he’s sleeping, doesn’t he, now?”

The connection clicked and Brian caught the receiver as John dropped it, racing to the door and flinging it open.

A seated Paul McCartney fell backwards into the room, unconscious and bloodied.


	4. "Baby, wake up…sing it with me..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul has been delivered back to John and Brian, bloody and unconscious. The note they find on him is a vicious, mocking confirmation of their worst fears. But Paul, who is in pain and keeps falling asleep, seems to remember nothing. John, meanwhile, cannot let Paul out of his grasp, and so Brian is forced to look for what he would rather not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for this chapter, but it had to be written. There is nothing graphic, so it shouldn't trigger anyone, but...proceed with caution depending upon how your own imagination rolls.

Paul lay half through the doorway, his clothes unusually disheveled, his legs splayed out into the corridor. It was all Brian could do to wrestle John off of his partner and drag both of them into the room, quickly shutting the door behind them and hoping no one had seen.

He thought the hallway had been empty. He hoped so.

John was on the floor, jostling Paul in his arms. “Wake up,” he was pleading as he gently shook him and then clutched him to his chest. “Wake up, Paulie, wake up.” He groaned, kissing Paul’s hair. “Oh, come on, lad…come to me, wake up.”

Brian touched his shoulder, saying his name gently. “John…”

The only answer was a broken sob as John tightened his grip on Paul and began rocking, as though he held a small, sick child. “You’ve got to open your eyes, now, love. Oh, what did they do to you?” He looked up at Brian, tears streaming down his cheeks. “They’ve hurt him, Bri… Look at him. They hurt his face. His pretty face.” Another tremulous groan came from him as he looked down at the man in his arms, shaking him again, as though to awaken him. “ _Paulie…_ ” he couldn’t continue, his voice breaking on another sob.

“Let’s get him on the bed, John,” Brian said, keeping his voice as mild as he could, despite his own fears. “Let’s get him off the floor and make him comfortable, alright?”

“I can’t…” John shook his head. “I can’t let go…”

“I’ll help you.”

Brian bent down, helping John get to his feet as they both lifted Paul, who was a deadweight, lifeless and unmoving, his swollen lips just parted, one eye closed and purple. Gently, the two men laid him on a bed. Brian immediately went into the bathroom, emerging with a glass of water and a cold compress. “Here, John --”

He stopped in his tracks, almost afraid to intrude on the tableau before him. There was John was fully on the bed, both arms around Paul, whose head was rested upon his shoulder. He was cooing at his partner under his breath, murmuring a few words and then singing snatches of a song Brian had never heard. Tears were coursing down his cheeks as he sang. “ _What are we gonna do, love_ ,” he sniffled, " _where we gonna go, when tonight we gonna go..._ " With his fingertips, he brushed the fringe off Paul’s forehead and then caressed his swollen cheek. He was touching Paul with such tenderness as Brian had never witnessed from John Lennon in all the time he'd known him.

“‘ _Oh, little darlin’, I’m packing my shoes_ ’…remember, baby? Remember? Baby, wake up…sing it with me. ‘ _Well, I’d tell the fellas that I’d follow you…_ ’ and you sing, ‘ _Oh, Johnny, Johnny, how will I tell my father you love me, Johnny_ ’” John sniffed, raising his shoulder to wipe his face. “And then I sing ‘ _I love you, Paul…_ ’ Paul…are you with me, baby?”

He raised his face to Brian, a picture of agony. “He’s not waking up. What am I gonna do, Bri? We need to get him to hospital.”

“We _might_ have to,” Brian agreed gently, leaning over and dabbing at Paul’s lips and then at his eye with the cold cloth before laying it on his forehead. “But keep talking to him. Your voice might bring him round.”

“Y’think?” John asked hopefully, suddenly sounding very young.

“Yes, I’ve read that. People can still hear when they’re unconscious. Keep doing what you’re doing. I’m just going to check his limbs to see he’s alright.”

And so John continued to croon at Paul, half singing, half speaking, “ _‘tellin’ my mother and my sister too, we’re goin’ away…_ ’ remember, babe?” Peppered within it all were John’s increasingly worried demands that Paul open his eyes. “Your pretty eyes, baby, open them. I need to see them. I can’t get through a day without them, love…”

Meanwhile, Brian, more observant than the traumatized John, had noticed the state of Paul’s clothing and was deeply worried. His jacket and tie were missing. His untucked shirt was put-together haphazardly, a few buttons missing. For Paul McCartney, who was always impeccably turned out and neat as wax, this was unthinkable.

But it was the condition of Paul’s wrinkled trousers that had raised an alarm for Brian. His belt was unbuckled and his fly mostly undone, and the pants weren’t sitting properly on the young man. They looked as though they’d been shoved upon him in haste by rough, uncaring hands.

Deliberately wearing as blank an expression as he could for John’s sake, Brian pressed his lips together in a thin, tense line and began to carefully, very gently, touch Paul, pressing on him with a full hand – first one shoulder, one arm, his eyes returning to Paul's face again and again as his hands moved, to see whether his touch caused a frown, even in Paul's unconscious state. He thought he saw a wince as he pressed the left wrist and hoped there was no real injury there.

He repeated his action on the opposite side, as well as he could while reaching around John, who would not budge. Finally, he moved his hand gently up the lad’s legs, pressing his whole hand, point-by-point, from his ankles to his knees, then to his thighs. Pressing at the hips with both hands, he saw Paul frown. He thought he heard a soft moan come from him, a light sound, just barely there, beneath John’s encouragements.

Brian closed his eyes for a moment, and then stepped away, unwilling to give voice yet to his suspicions. His stomach was roiling as he considered what to do. 

“C’mon, Pyramus,” John was urging into Paul’s ear as he nuzzled at his pale cheek. His voice was steadier now. “ _Arise_. Wriggle that cherry nose of yours for Thisbe, yeah? And then open your eyes…”

There was a knock on the door and John started, looking up at Brian, who squeezed his shoulder. “Stay with him and be quiet,” he said. “I’ll get it”

“Mr. Epstein, Mr. Lennon,” a familiar voice called discreetly. “It’s Dawson, the house detective.”

John went silent. Brian turned for the door. Before opening it he looked back, noting how visible the two young men would be from that vantage point, and decided to open the door just a few inches. The investigator was there, his face grim. “I’m sorry to say, sir, there’s no sign of --”

“He’s here,” Brain said softly, careful not to show his anxiety. “Already asleep. Turned up not long after you’d left. I’m sorry, I should have phoned down to have them let you know.”

“Ah, good,” the older man sighed, his expression relaxing. “He’s well, then?”

“Yes. He seems to be alright.”

“A bit in his cups when he returned, as we’d suspected?”

“Yes,” Brian lied, trying on a smile. “He’s going to get quite a scolding as soon as he wakes up in the morning, for scaring us like this. Like _that,_ ” he corrected.

Dawson raised his eyebrows, smiling in return, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ah, well, he’s earned it, hasn’t he? Still, don’t be too hard on the lad. We’ve all been three-and-twenty, and it’s a very _warm_ age, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed,” Brian agreed.

“And Mr. Lennon, he’s alright? Young man was near beside himself with worry.”

“He’s in the shower, probably rehearsing the riot act he’ll be reading him in the morning.”

“Ha,” the man chuckled. “I can already hear it. Well, I’ll not take up your time any further, then, sir. All is well, and all is well, and that is all we need to know of it. You can be sure of the house’s discretion,” he added with a pointed look.

“I thank you for that. We all thank you for your help. Goodnight, Mr. Dawson.” He closed the door after the detective had wished him the same, and then pressed his head against the doorjamb, releasing a huge sigh. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

“He’s gone,” John asked in a quiet voice when Brian again approached the bed.

“He is. I don’t think we’ll have to worry much about gossip. A good man, I think.”

“Aye, I think so too.” He looked up with a worried expression. “Should we call in our own doctor, though? He’s not waking up.”

Brian steeled himself, ready to speak difficult words. “John, let go of him for a minute, will you? We need to talk. In fact,” inspiration suddenly struck, as he thought of a way to put things off a little while longer, “maybe we should call Geo and Ritchie, now, bring them in on this.”

“If you think so,” John said carelessly. Now that Paul was returned to him, he was content to let Brian decide. All of his attention was focused on the young man in his arms.

"I don't think Paul will mind us bringing them over." Brian moved to the phone but stayed his hand as he heard John gasp and raise his voice a bit. “ _Yes, baby, you’re coming back_? You’re opening your eyes for me! Come on, then love. C'mon, Paulie, darling…”

Putting down the receiver, his eyes became fixed on the couple as John encouraged Paul, whose long lashes were flickering, as though he was trying to awaken.

“There, baby,” John cooed. He tossed the compress toward Brian and kissed Paul soundly on his forehead. “Johnny’s here. Is _Paulie_ here, finally?”

Paul turned his head toward John, wincing a little, his lids stopped flickering for a moment. It looked like he might be falling quickly back into slumber, and John reached out to stroke his arm, and then his chest, hoping to help him emerge from his stupor. “‘ _Asleep, my love_ ,’” he smiled gently. “Come on, sweet thing, don’t _tease_ me, now, you’ve had me so scared…”

Paul inhaled hugely. As he exhaled, his eyes flew open, suddenly, startlingly. He stared blankly at John.

“ _There_ you are.” Brian heard John choking up again, the words barely carrying on his breath. “Oh, God, finally, _Paul!_ Thank God, Paul, love.” He put both arms around his partner’s waist and hugged him tight. “I thought I’d lose you…”

Paul gasped under John’s tight squeeze, a ragged keen of pain was pulled from him. His body seemed to shiver in discomfort as he blinked and stared once more.

“That hurt you…” John whispered. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t know. Where does it hurt you? Brian,” he called out. “He’s hurt!”

“Yes, I know,” Brian said with a grim expression as he returned from the bathroom with a fresh cloth. “Here, give him a little room, John, and put this on his forehead. Gently!”

“You do it. I don’t want to hurt him again.”

Reluctantly, John let go of Paul, leaning back to give Brian access. Unable to help himself, he took one of Paul’s hands, bending his head to kiss it before enclosing it within both of his own and letting his thumb stroke over Paul’s palm. He watched anxiously as the fresh compress was applied.

Something was wrong. Paul was awake, but still not all “there.” His hazel-brown eyes were nearly black, his pupils dilated and unfocused. He stared at Brian with the same uncomprehending look he’d given to John. Slowly, as Brian murmured something to him about being more comfortable, Paul’s eyes began to move, from one face to the other, with a questioning expression. His lips moved, but no words came out.

“Water,” John said. Moving behind Paul, he sat him up very slightly, noticing the low moan of pain it brought out of the bassist. He remembered that Brian had brought a glass of water earlier, and now John raised it to the younger man’s lips and encouraged a few sips into him, kissing his temple and then urging him to drink a bit more. “Can’t speak when you’re dry, love.” After a few more small sips, he put the glass aside, but stayed where he was, his arms going back around his mate.

“What…” Paul licked his sore lips. “...'s going on,” he managed.

“You tell us, love,” John said softly. “Who stole you away? What happened?”

“Stole…” Paul tried to speak through a painful throat. He voice was weak and raspy as he looked from John to Brian and then back in confusion. “What…?”

“Baby, someone’s jumped you, or something. Can you tell us what happened?”

Paul gulped and looked around helplessly, his voice fading in and out. “I…I don’t know. I can’t…how did I get here?” Paul relaxed against John’s shoulder with another wince, closing his eyes again. All he could think of at the moment was how strangely exhausted he felt, and how his body seemed to hurt, everywhere. His throat was killing him. “Sorry…” he offered, his voice barely there. “Mus'... getting sick.”

Brian shot a meaningful look at John – a look that said, both “be quiet” and also, “let me handle this.” It was a familiar look and John trusted it. He went silent, merely continuing to gently comb Paul’s tangled hair with his fingers – being careful not to squeeze him, anywhere. After a few minutes, Paul’s breathing became regular. He’d dropped back into sleep.

“D’ye think it’s okay to let him doze,” John asked Brian quietly. “He might have concussion.”

“I’d let him rest,” Brian said in a very still voice. “I think he needs it. John, we have to talk.”

Lennon squinted now, at his manager, not liking the sound of that. “You said that before. What’s on yer mind, then?” He noted that Brian had begun to pace.

“John,” he repeated. He gave John a stern look. “You need to pay attention, now, and control yourself. You were too upset, too distracted before to notice, but now that we have him back…now that he’s come around at least a bit…I want you to take a good look at him.”

John frowned, unsure of Eppy’s meaning, but then directed his gaze toward Paul. His face. He’d noticed his face, of course he had. A split lip, the growing shiner. “We should get some ice for that,” he murmured, nodding toward it.

“Beyond his face. _Look_ , John. Try to focus.” Brian handed him his glasses.

Slipping them on with an annoyed look at his manager, John looked further. For the first time, he took in how oddly disheveled was his partner. He looked like a lad who’d taken part in a brawl, his shirt ready for the rag bin, his trousers stained and wrinkled and half undone.

Half undone.

_Tell him, next time we’ll let him stay awake for the party…_

No. Christ, no. Paul, no!

While he could feel Paul breathing evenly -- slow and steady in his arms -- John's his own breath and heart-rate began to gallop as the idea began to form, and the panic arose with it. His throat closed up. He could only stare as Brian moved closer, leaning over Paul, and then reaching into the pocket of his shirt, where a ragged piece of paper had earlier caught his eye. Stepping back, the manager hesitated a moment before unfolding the scrap. He looked at the two men before him, so intimately bound together, one frowning in a troubled sleep, the other wearing a face that spoke of a long hard day of anguish and relief, and now showed open, naked fear. 

Wanting everything to get better, but now fearing things were about to get much worse, Brian opened the note and read it, and John saw him stop breathing. He turned his back to the bed, unable to face John, not wanting to see Paul.

“What,” John’s voice was quavering like a child’s as he whispered. “Eppy, what? Please, what now? Please?”

Eppy sank on to the bed across from John and Paul. He handed the note to John and buried his face in his hands.

John, almost wishing he did not have his glasses, looked once more at Paul to be sure he was asleep, and then he read the words.

_He was delicious. In every way._

Brian heard John’s gasp and looked up. He raised a finger in warning. “Don’t wake him.” he whispered.

John was nearly hyperventilating. “But…Eppy, no! _No_!” wrapped his arms more fully around him, careful not to squeeze. “No,” he hissed again, burying his face in Paul’s hair.

Brian looked close to crying. He gulped loudly, several times, and then emptied the glass of water before he was able to get his upper lip to comport to British standards and to get his voice under control.

“This might be bad, John.”

“What do you mean, _might_ be, you endless freak, of course it’s bad.” John’s voice was rising. “There is no way this isn’t bad.”

“Lower your voice,” Brian spat between gritted teeth. “Let’s not wake him up if we can help it. I mean, _bad_ , bad. I mean like… he may be injured. Like we may need to get him to hospital, and something like this -- the "cute Beatle" being raped, perhaps gang-raped -- there’s no way that won’t get leaked to the press.”

“If he needs the hospital, then we take him there, and suffer the press,” John whispered savagely. “This is too important to put under a PR watch. Can’t you ever turn it off? You’re a like a fuckin’ machine!”

“I am not a machine,” Brian’s expression was furious. “It’s my job to think of you and protect you from --”

“You didn’t do a very good job of protectin’ Paulie tonight, though, did you,” John spat, careful to control his voice, but feeling Paul tense up in his arms nevertheless. That checked his rant before he could get started. He modified his tone as he looked upon his mate, his eyes watering for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. His voice was full of regret. “Comes to that, neither did I…I didn't protect him...” He felt wretched, wracked with guilt for Paul's sake, and now for brutalizing Eppy for no good reason. Just because he was scared. And angry, so, so angry. Mostly with himself. 

Brian had been pacing and now he let out a frustrated groan, sounding very much like a man looking for a way out. He was fisting both hands in his own hair as he looked up at the ceiling, and then made the decision.

It had to be done. He turned back to John.

“Look, help me,” he said holding John’s gaze. “I know this is hard. _John_ ,” he warned, not letting Lennon speak, “John, just listen to me.”

John swallowed, willing the water back down from his eyes. “Aye, Eppy. Go on…”

“It’s bad,” he repeated. “We need to see _how_ bad. I don’t want to, but we have to know what we’re dealing with, and whether we’re headed to hospital. I need…” he looked away. “We need to check him. I need you to…just hold him, just…keep him asleep or at least feeling safe in your arms. I’m going to…have a look.”

“No.”

“Yes, John.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Then you have to do it.”

“ _No. I don’t want this_. Paul doesn’t want this.”

Brian winced. “This isn’t about what any of us could ever want, right now. John.”

John closed his eyes, resting his head against Paul’s. He began to once more touch Paul's arm and chest with small, soothing strokes of his fingertips. After a minute, eyes still closed, he nuzzled closer to Paul, and nodded his head. .

With great reluctance, and all the delicacy he could muster, Brian began to undo Paul’s shirt, spreading both sides open to expose his chest. Red marks were apparent around the throat, but they didn’t seem deep. On his chest, a few marks and bruises, and what appeared to be bites, or suckling marks, all red and purple. He raised his eyes to John, who was determinedly looking away, keeping only to Paul’s face. Gritting his teeth, his hands went to the sleeping lad’s trousers, fully undoing the half-zipped fly, which was damaged.

There were no drawers. Whoever had dressed Paul hadn’t bothered with them -- hadn't considered his dignity, even that much. But the dark trousers told their tale as Brian slowly shimmied them down from Paul's hips (he regretted the soft groan of pain that came from the sleeping lad, and seemed unavoidable) and then drew them away from his bruised legs.

The trousers were beyond saving. Seams were torn, as though they'd been roughly grabbed at. Inside, there was a terrible amount of staining. The fabric was crusty with dried semen. The metallic tang of copper seemed everywhere -- so pervasive that John identified it as blood immediately, even without looking. Shuddering at what it meant, he let out a soft groan, raising one hand to Paul’s face, barely cupping his cheek as he kissed him, and then kissed him again.

“Blanket,” John said softly, still not looking -- still refusing to see anything but Paul's face. “Cover him.”

“I will, John,” Brian reassured him. “Just this, though. I'm sorry.” He planted a hand on each of Paul’s thighs and brought them apart, as gently as he could, just a few inches. The young man began to whimper in pain. “No,” he said in a groggy voice thick with sleep. “Stop it. Hurts.”

Brian stopped, not wanting to awaken him.

It was enough. He’d seen enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song John is crooning to Paul, with which Eppy is unfamiliar, is an informal jam the teenaged John and Paul recorded while goofing about at 20 Forthlin Road. , as teenagers. It is a simple informal jam. The lyrics are often unintelligible, but the best account of them might be found here: https://www.lennonmccartney.net/2019/09/26/i-dont-know-johnny-johnny-the-forgotten-song/


	5. There was a boy, a very strange, enchanted boy...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Paul sleeps off the effects of being drugged (and not without pain), John finally confesses their relationship to Brian. For Brian, it is a revelation he'd have preferred never to have come to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is just to take a breath a little from all the angst, and also to establish a few things about the relationships of JohnandPaul and John and Brian. A bit of needed character development. Next chapter, which I am already working on, will bring us Paul, fully awake. I don't even know what to say about it. We'll see how it goes.

Having seen more than he'd ever wished to, Brian pulled a blanket from the second bed and carefully settled it over Paul’s naked body. He’d been spooked to hear the young man’s voice emerge from his still drug-weighted depths, the ragged but clear command to stop touching him. The note of pain. It all made Brian feel a little woozy, and he was distressed to see the frown that lingered on Paul's sleeping, bruised face.

I wasn't until the lad was suitably covered that John could finally look at something beyond that face. “How bad,” he asked Brian, who gulped before he could answer, lighting two cigarettes with shaking hands and handing one off to John.

“He’s a mess, John.” Brian spoke in a near-whisper, barely willing to pronounce the words as he ran a hand through is hair. “There’s still fresh blood, but not a lot. I think that’s nearly stopped. But…there’s a stream of dried blood all down his thighs, and…you know, the other. I thought…I was thinking maybe I should get a cloth and try to clean him up, you know, so he doesn’t wake up and see himself like that.”

John's distress was hard to witness. He’d gone pale as his reddened eyes closed and he took a minute to smoke, and to compose himself.

“I understand why you want to do that,” he said to Brian with uncharacteristic slowness, as though he was consciously controlling his responses. “Part of me thinks we _should_ do that. Part of me…well, part of me respects Paul too much to try to hide anything from him. He’d hate that. But mostly, I just don’t want to see him hurting again because we’ve touched him.”

Brian sighed and threw himself into a chair. For a moment neither of them wanted to say more. John licked his lips thoughtfully. “I don’t want to call the lads, yet. I also don’t think we can just leave in the morning. He might need to rest.”

“I’ll arrange extending your stay. Do you want me to call Cynthia? Tell her you both need an extra night?”

“No, I’ll call her,” John demurred, surprised to realize that in this moment, he wanted to hear Cynthia’s voice, even if it meant enduring a bit of complaint. It would lend a sense of normality to this surreal night. “If you could call Jane, though.”

“I will. Shall I tell her --”

“Christ, no, man! I’m not tellin’ Cyn, either. This is Paul’s to tell Jane.”

“She might be able to help him, though, John. A man goes through something like this, some reassurance from his woman might --”

“I don’t know how reassuring she’d be,” John interrupted again. The truth was, he didn’t now Jane well enough to hazard a guess at how she would receive this news. Would she hurry over and want to take charge of Paul? _Over my dead body_ , he thought. Or might she turn around and reject Paul in disgust, as some women might, or see him as “less” of a man? That would help no one. Having no idea how Jane would respond, bringing her up to date was not an option for John and he said so.

“But she has a right to know…”

“She’s not his wife. She’s not even his fiancé. She has no rights, here, and I don’t know if we can even trust her. You don’t bring an unknown substance into a hot zone,” he spat, “things might blow up.”

Paul groaned, and John realized his volume had been rising. He lowered his voice again but looked at Brian with hard eyes that would brook no further argument. “Paul doesn’t need any of that, right now. What he needs is me. Not Jane, not the lads. Not even you, Brian, truth be told. He needs _me_.”

Brian stabbed out his cigarette, more than a little annoyed. “You’re a bit harsh, John. That’s a bastard thing to say, especially when I’ve been with you through all of this tonight.”

“Well I am a bastard, so that’s at least consistent.” Not much liking Brian’s expression, and realizing he'd caused it, John flung off his glasses and then sighed, his bravado collapsing as he gave voice to what was really bothering him. “I’m sorry. You're right. I've no business cutting on you. But…Christ, Brian, how the hell am I going to tell Jim McCartney his boy’s been…”

His words fell off as he rubbed his face. “I always told him I’d look out for Paul. It was a promise, you know? A real one. The old man never liked me but I always meant it when said I’d be careful with his son, and I think it’s the only thing he ever believed of me. When we went to Hamburg…[when I took him to Paris](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611301)…God! _Paris…_ ” his voice collapsed as his hand went over his mouth, as he wrestled down his feelings. He couldn't let them rise, or he'd invite a wail of fear and sorrow that might never stop.

Brian saw John working so hard, so transparently, to keep from falling apart and his anger was instantly replaced with compassion. The man was eating himself alive with guilt, and Brian suspected that a galloping sense of it would be his default mode for a while – too long for John’s own good.

“This is not your fault, John,” he began, but John just waved his words away, his gesture making it clear that he didn’t want to hear anything. He didn’t want consolation at the moment. He wanted to feel bad, to feel horrified, to feel afraid, and worried, and ashamed and anything else he _could_ feel, rather than let loose his anger. Because right now, John Lennon was afraid of his own fury, and what it might do to everyone he loved, or to himself, if he didn't keep it capped. Certainly, Paul didn’t need to see it. If he did, he’d just try to address it or fix it, when the truth was John was unfixable by any measure – a lost cause, he was, – and Paul would have enough to think about.

He shivered at the notion that at some point Paul would wake up, and John would have to tell him all of…this _horror_ that had befallen him. It was his job, he knew. The job of the one who loved Paul more than anyone on the planet. _His_ Paul. _His_ job. Not Brian’s, not Jane’s. Not anyone else’s.

But God, could he do it, could he get through it without making it harder, instead of easier, on Paul?

Deep into his own thoughts, he’d missed whatever Brian had said to him and shook his head to clear it. “Missed that, sorry…”

“I was offering to call Jim, bring him down here.”

“No, not yet,” John said, instantly. “Perhaps we should let Paul decide on that. How he wants him told.”

“Or even _if_ ,” Brian added.

“Aye,” John agreed very quietly. “Same with his brother.”

They fell silent again, John adjusting the blanket around Paul and then falling into a worried gaze as he touched his fingertips to the lad’s bruised lips and shook his head in sadness. Brian cleared his throat as though to get his attention.

“John…if you don’t mind. I have to ask…”

Lennon sighed as though he’d been expecting this, and slowly pulled his attention away from the man in his arms, to the man in the chair. “Ask away, then.”

“It’s just…only I know you two have always been close. But, from what I’ve seen tonight…is it… it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

John met his eyes and slowly nodded his head. Some part of him felt a heavy burden lift from his chest. It felt good to acknowledge the truth to at least one other person, and Brian – living as he did – was likely the safest person to tell, the one who would best understand. “We’ve learned how to be very good at behaving in company,” he admitted.

“But,” Brian’s voice sounded strained. He shook his head as though biting back the question he really wanted to ask. “How long? Since I’ve known you all?”

John nodded again, understanding that the answer would hurt. “Since _always_ , Brian,” he said. [“Since…we were pretty young, really.”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/45597766)

The manager let out a huge sigh as a jumbled mass of feelings presented themselves, and all at the wrong time. He knew it was the wrong time, but he had to ask. “So…When we went to Spain, then, _you and I_?”

John’s lips had compressed into a thin line, but he bit the word out. “Yes.” He finally looked up. “You knew what that was about, though. I wasn’t…I had no plans to cheat on him, that wasn’t my intention.”

 _No_ , Brian thought. _You just meant to use me as much as necessary to end the argument about songwriting credits. Used me to screw over your partner, who you say you love. That was your intention._

He shook his head in disbelief and wanted to say the words out loud -- wanted to make John admit to his craven selfishness and insecurity -- but his own sense of occasion, which was rarely off-point, stopped him. _Wrong time, wrong night, wrong place to make him face up to it, not while that poor lad is in his arms, in that condition.”_

And anyway, Brian reasoned, his teeth tugging at his bottom lip, if confronted, John wouldn’t deny what he had done. He’d just say ‘you know I’m a bastard’ and since that was true, there was nowhere else to take it. He'd already done it this very night. That’s how John got away with everything, by disarming one’s every accusation, every righteous fit, with the truth that he was indeed a selfish and lazy bastard.

It wasn’t Brian’s problem, really, he considered. It was Paul’s if it was anyone’s.

Still, his disappointment in John felt like an arrow to the heart. For his own sake, yes, but he’d eventually get over it and forgive. He loved John, and would forever take him as he was.

But now the pain felt shared, between him and Paul, who was also John’s helpless pet. The boy’s regard for John seemed unconditional, and Brian had seen him forgive his partner, or finish his fights for him, or talk him out a jam over and over again through the years.

For the first time since he’d known the duo, he thought to himself that perhaps Paul deserved someone better than John.

But he knew Paul would never think so. He was the faithful type, and his belief in his partner was absolute. He knew John in all his faults and weaknesses and accepted him fully. He was like an acolyte, ready to be subsumed in service to John’s bizarre and brilliant priesthood.

“Does Cynthia know?” Brian asked, suddenly.

“No,” John hissed quickly. “No one knows. George and Ringo don’t even know -- or if they do, they’ve never let on. I think Jim might have suspected at one time, but then…” He tugged at his lip. “Frankly I think Jim was pretty happy when little Dot got knocked up because it meant his son wasn’t a queer.”

He looked up at Brian again. “We’re _not_ , you know. Queer. We don’t go out looking for rent boys together, or anything like that. I know Paul’s never even thought about…other men. It’s just… _us_. A thing between _us_. I can’t explain it. Just _us_ , together. Like we’re magnetized.”

Brian had gone completely still in his seat aware that John had no idea what he had said about Brian's own life, in subtext, or the crass judgement that lay beneath even that. _Wrong time, wrong place, Brian_. He deliberately worked his face into a neutral expression, as he asked, “And you love him, John?” The question came in a very low voice, as he looked down and away.

“Yes,” came the answer, equally low. When he spoke again, it was as though he’d read Brian’s mind. “He’s my whole fuckin’ world, Eppy. I’d lose my mind without him. Couldn’t go on.” He looked down at Paul again and made an impatient sound at himself. “And I don’t know why he keeps putting up with me, I’m such a freakish, moody bastard.”

 _Well, yes_ , Brian thought. _And yet we love you._ In answer to John’s confession, Brian poured two more drinks. He handed one to John, gently touched his glass against it, and drank it down in one go. Then he rose, found the room key and pocketed it.

“I’ll be back in a bit. Will let myself in,” he said, thinking to himself, _not for your convenience. So that Paul doesn’t have to be disturbed._

Barely thirty minutes later, he slipped back into the room quietly and could hear John’s voice, hushed as he finished a conversation on the phone. Looking a great deal calmer, John squinted up at him as he replaced the receiver.

“Cynthia?” Brian asked.

“Aye, did you call Jane?”

“I did. She was out but I left a message.”

“What’s that you’ve got with ye, then?”

“My pajamas,” Brian answered, setting the neatly folded bundle on a dresser. “I didn’t now what Paul had packed – rather going on the assumption that, things being as they are… neither of you packed anything more than your toothbrushes for an overnight. I thought he might want pajamas.”

John was moved at his manager’s thoughtfulness. But that was his job, right? To think of everything? Still, the idea hadn’t crossed his own mind, and he thanked Brian with real sincerity. “Of course he will be more comfortable in pajamas, in clean clothes…”

“Did he bring a change of clothes?” Brian managed a small smile in John’s direction. “I mean you both weren’t intending to traipse about in wrinkled tuxedos come the daytime, were you?”

“Paul’d never have it,” John almost managed to smile back. “We have a change of clothes, but yeah, the pajamas…good call. I don’t know how much he’ll want to be naked-” He cut off his words before he could speak them: _with me_.

 _With me or with anyone_. For the first time it hit John how deeply this attack might affect not just Paul’s sense of himself, but also their physical relationship. “My little nature boy” was one of John’s affectionate names for Paul, for he was a lad so comfortable in his own skin, so at ease with his own nakedness, that he would often walk around the shared common area of the band’s hotel suites completely bare-arsed as he grabbed a drink or a guitar. “Lost any modestly I had in Hamburg, didn’t I,” he’d once answered George when the guitarist had asked him – for the third time -- to _please_ put on a robe before sitting down to work on a song together. “Can’t think when your balls are peekin’ out from under your guitar you know. I keep expectin’ em to break into harmony. Very high pitched harmony.”

And Paul had just thrown his head back and laughed, and then deliberately fluttered his eyelashes at his childhood friend, until Ringo finally brought him a robe, saying “Fuck yer instruments on yer own time, lad.”

John realized that he was smiling at the memory – the first real smile since Paul had gone missing. It was a bittersweet realization as his lips pressed once more into a thin, tense line at a new, unwelcome thought.

_Everything is about to change._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from the song "Nature Boy" a haunting and strange song which was a hit for Nat King Cole, written by eden ahbez. You can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iq0XJCJ1Srw


	6. The Memory of Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul finally wakes up and, still fuzzy from the drug, only slowly begins to realize what has occurred. When John offers to bathe him, there is lots of bravado, and even a beautiful moment that makes them both think they might come out of this situation unscathed. And then Paul has a flashback, retrieving a horrific memory, and everything crashes for both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long read, and not an easy one. I'm sorry. There is a flashback with brief details of Paul's ordeal, including one violent act. I'll * * * before it comes up, so readers can skip it if they need to.  
> The chapter is long because there was a lot to cover. I hope it's not too difficult to read. Nothing about rape is easy.  
> I may not write for few days, after this...
> 
> If I haven't said it before, this is a complete work of fiction, and I don't own the Beatles or anyone mentioned in this story. Which is fiction. Horrible, horrible fiction.

It was nearly four in the morning when John felt Paul begin to move about the bed, each motion accompanied by groans of pain. Brian had left earlier and John had fallen asleep with the light on and his arms still around his partner.

Now, he could hear the lad breathing as he shifted his position, turning to his side with a loud whimper. He seemed to be searching for a way to get comfortable, reaching sleepily across John’s chest, but then pulling back. With another gasp of pain, Paul awoke fully, shaking his head against John’s shoulder and opening his eyes which, John could see, were clearer and more alert than the last time he’d woken.

“Hello, baby,” John said tenderly. “How are you?”

“I’m so thirsty,” Paul murmured, his voice sounded husky. “Everything hurts.”

John rose immediately to fill a glass. As he returned, he could see Paul looking confusedly at the blanket around him, as though he knew something was wrong with the bed setting -- that he wasn’t properly under the covers, at least -- but his cylinders were not all firing, yet. He gave an odd look up at John as he reached for the water, and tried to sit up, wincing once more in pain.

“Whoops, not so fast, you.” John quickly got behind the lad and helped him sit up. “Take your time, love.”

Paul gave his full attention to the glass of water, downing the whole drink in one go, catching his breath as he handed it off and then leaning back, with another wince, against John’s torso. He was frowning for all he was worth.

“Alright, sweet?” John asked.

Paul directed his frown at him. “John. What the _fuck_?”

“I know, baby, just give me a minute to tell--”

“Why does everything _hurt_? Couldn’t you even let me turn the sheets down? Was I drunk?” He cursed as he moved his legs and felt a shooting pain travel from his legs all the way to his lower back. “Why do I feel filthy? What the fuck, John,” he repeated, noting this time that his lower lip was numb, and his words were coming out slurry, as though he’d just seen a dentist.

“Calm down, Paul, it’s been a bad night.”

“I’d guess so,” Paul croaked, “but why? I feel like…I don’t have a word for what I feel.” He raised one hand to his lips, and seemed then to discover the swelling on that side of his face. His fingers moved to the raised flesh around his eye, and he turned to John again.

“Did you do this?”

John shook his head furiously, almost speechless at the question. “Never. I would _never_ , Paul, you should know it…”

John’s eyes were swollen, too, and red. In them Paul saw something like an unholy mixture of pain, and pity, and fear. A reflection of something dark, lacking any part of beauty. He feared he had caused it with his harsh question, which he’d not really meant. He knew better, of course he did. Acknowledging it, he patted his partner’s arm. “I know…I know, sorry. Just…Jesus, John, what happened?”

The blanket had moved lower, and John’s gaze slipped down. He got his first view of the bites on Paul’s chest and around his swollen nipples.

 _Not ‘love bites’_ , he thought, _these are_ _marks of dominance and ownership_. Had they been left there by his own mouth, or even some bird’s, John would have called them sexy, but now they could only be called obscene. They were evidence of something evil that had landed on his Paul, and taken brief possession of his person.

Paul’s eyes followed John’s gaze, and his beautiful brows lowered as he took in the marks. Not just bites but thin, shallow lines, as though he’d been mildly lashed. There was a crackling sheen to parts of him which John now recognized as the barely wiped residue of a man, or men – _how many were there?_ \-- shooting their loads.

Yes, it was there, on his face, too, that sheen. _And in his beautiful hair. God!_

Paul was studying John, now. He noted the grimace as John squeezed his eyes shut, and it made him curious enough to start to lower the blanket further.

John reached out and stayed his hand. “No, love. _Don’t._ ”

Paul felt his stomach drop. “What’s gone on, John,” he gulped, closing his own eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong?”

He felt John’s arms go around him as he kissed his temple. “What can you remember, baby? Do you remember anything after you said you’d be right up?”

Paul shook his aching head. “I don’t remember telling you that.”

“What’s the last thing you remember? Can you think back?”

“No, it’s weird. I…it’s like my memory isn’t working. It’s all just a blank.”

 _That might be for the best_ , John thought to himself. Still, he had to keep prodding a bit, at least to try to discover who Paul remembered talking to -- who might have slipped him the blasted mickey or Spanish fly or whatever it was.

“Try, babe. Last time I saw you, you were talking to a fat fellow with a few medals on his chest, do you remember?”

Paul frowned deeply, really trying to recall. “No. I remember…I have a fuzzy memory of taking another drink off a waiter who came by with them…and there were…oh, God, I don’t know, three or five men, they were all you know…those puffy, overjolly sorts. Lots of grey hair. I remember grey hair. John,” Paul said, turning to a subject more immediate to him, “I feel disgusting. I feel like I need a bath. Could you…would you mind running it for me?”

Lennon was as grateful as Paul to get away from the topic at hand. “Right away, love, good plan.” He jumped to it, while Paul inhaled swiftly with pain as the mattress was jostled.

As he went about setting the water temperature and wondering whether or not to add something bubbly to the bath – no, he decided, the water alone might sting enough -- John could feel his own nerves shooting about, jumbling his thoughts. He wanted to help Paul any way he could – of course he did.

Of _course_ he did.

But at this moment he also wished he could get away, run from what was before him. He didn’t know if he could handle pushing Paul to remember. One part of himself wondered whether he was man enough to endure hearing whatever Paul might recollect, and remain unchanged.

And then he was disgusted with himself. To be wondering whether he could “take” Paul’s memories when it was Paul who would have to suffer through them, and live through it all.

 _Of course_ he would remain unchanged.

He told himself that as his eyes closed and he let his forehead rest against the cool marble tile of the bathroom wall. Right behind his resolute thought, another, unbidden and unwelcome came to the surface.

 _Paul might be changed, though_.

Could that happen? If the memories came, could Paul still be the same person he had loved, the person who completed him? He’d always been the strongest lad John had ever known, pluck to the backbone, afraid of nothing and no none, quite despite his delicate looks. But now?

It suddenly occurred to him that even though his Macca had been returned to him, there were still many ways John could lose Paul as this horrific reality played itself out.

“ _Buck it up, Lennon_ ,” he whispered to himself. “This isn’t about you, for once, so stop thinking about anything but him…”

Paul needed him, now, he knew -- really _needed John_ in this moment, just as, so long ago, John had needed Paul (and needed every bit of him) [back when Julia had died.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/45597766)

_Of course John Lennon would be there for Paul McCartney._

Of course he would.

Right?

 _Please God_ , he thought, d _on’t let me fuck this up._

“John?” he heard Paul call as he was shutting off the tap for the bath. “ _John_?” The call was urgent, even panicked-sounding. He rushed out to find that Paul had lifted the blanket from himself and was staring in horror at what he beheld -- the crusted, blood-stained muck caught in the nearly fur-thick hair of his thighs, and the bruises, always more bruises. Paul was trembling throughout his whole body as he began to put the clues together and understand what had happened to him during that blank time, and what might live within the hole in his memory.

John went to his side taking one knee beside the bed. “I’m here, Paul. C’mon, love, the bath is ready.”

“John… _look_.”

“No, Bunny, don’t look. Look at me.”

Paul’s eyes were wide opened and staring. He seemed unable to look away from the evidence of his having been… no, he couldn’t allow the word. The mess, that’s what it was…the mess of himself.

His breath staggered. “John?” he said sounding uncharacteristically unsure of himself.

John took Paul’s chin in his fingers and forced the lad to face him. “Look at _me_ , Paul, just me, only.” Paul finally raised his dark eyes and John saw something in them he’d never seen before: confusion. And uncertainty. And fear.

And beneath all of that, a raw neediness that had never shown itself in Paul except in moments of deep lust, which had paradoxically seemed powerful to John, a complete turn on.

Only in this look, that power was missing. What replaced it was chillingly unfamiliar.

“I’m going to bathe, you Paulie,” John said in his gentlest voice. “Alright? And we can talk, then, yeah?”

Paul simply nodded, and moved painfully, putting his weight mostly on his arms as he tried to get out of bed. Dragging one leg over the edge, he caught a spasm of knifelike pain. His eyes welled up and his voice cracked. He looked ready to cry. “John…I don’t think I can walk,” he said. “My legs and my back --”

“I know, son, I know. Just put your arms around my shoulders. I’ll carry you.”

“No, fuck that,” Paul moaned, his tears spilling over and his face gone red. “I’ll not be carried about. I’ll... I just need your arm.”

“Put your arms around my neck,” John repeated as gently as he could. He wiped Paul’s tears with his thumb and threw a smile full of misery into the mix. “Just swallow your damned Irish Macca-pride and let me help you, alright, baby?”

Nodding in surrender, and hiccupping his way through a sob that made him look and sound like a frightened, lost child, Paul obeyed. He had no choice. Facing up to what he couldn’t control, he slipped his arms around John’s neck and buried his face there, too, with a shuddering sigh.

In the bathroom, John gingerly helped Paul down into the tub, fully supporting his weight as the lad couldn’t quite get his legs under him. Lowering himself fully into the water, too, was a trial for Paul, as his wounds sang in the sting of heat. Once he was fully submerged, though, and able to stretch out in the warmth, he began to relax.

John felt the opposite of relaxed. He could see the water already tinting pink as dried blood began to diffuse through it. He left the room for a moment, returning with the ice bucket before Paul could ask where he had gone. 

“Let me wash your hair, first,” he murmured, filling the bucket from the tap and gently pouring clean water over the lad’s head. Paul closed his eyes as John worked a big dollop of shampoo into a lather, using his fingertips to work it through and release the gunk tangled within. “Feel nice?”

Paul nodded, giving himself over to his partner’s ministrations. “Don’t get it in my eyes, ye clumsy sod,” he warned, forcing a tiny smile to his lips.

“No, I wouldn’t mess up your pretty eyes,” John replied, instantly hating himself for even suggesting it while one of Paul’s eyes was so swollen.

Paul, as he had a thousand times before in their life together, seemed to intuitively grasp John’s thought and helpfully move it somewhere else.

“Remember when you [punched me at Julia’s funeral](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/46074256),” Paul said. “And then you kissed the bruise later…it was the first time you ever kissed me, anywhere.”

“I remember…” John found that his eyes were stinging, now. “I wish I hadn’t.” [_A punch, a bruise, kissed_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/46130065).

“It’s a good memory for me, though,” Paul murmured through a rasp, “I didn’t mind the hit. You were out of your head with grief. And if you hadn’t slugged me, you might never have kissed me. I didn’t mind the kiss, either. I loved it, you know. In the secret of my heart, I was thrilled.”

“The kiss that launched a thousand shags…”

Paul chuckled at that. “Good memories.” He reached up, stilling John’s hands for a moment as he latched on to one of his wrists. “John…” he whispered.

“What, babe?” John whispered back.

“Something bad has happened, hasn’t it?”

John looked directly into his eyes, deciding in the moment that there was no sense in speaking anything but the truth to Paul about this night. He gulped, whispering again. “Yes, darling. Something bad has happened to you. I think someone…slipped something in one of your drinks.”

“Maybe someone with gray hair…” Paul looked away, down at the pink-hued water around him. He seemed thoughtful as he surveyed his body, and the gathering layer of scum floating to the top of the water. “Do you think…” He looked up at John again, exhaling heavily. “Do you think, John, if I can’t remember, if it all stays blank, then we just get me cleaned up and it’s like it never happened?”

 _He was delicious. In every way…_ That's what some bastard had written of his beloved Paul. John made a mental note to destroy that damning evidence.

“Let’s hope for that, shall we?” John answered. _And could it be that easy_ , he wondered.

Paul’s Adam’s apple visibly moved as he swallowed thickly, nodding even as he frowned. “Yeah… yeah. I’ll be okay then.”

“We’re gonna be fine, baby,” John agreed, feeling more like he was making a wish than a promise as he refilled the bucket. “Tilt your head back, now,” he urged, rinsing the copious lather from Paul’s hair. “There, that’s done.” Grabbing a short towel, he briskly rubbed away the heaviest bit of wetness and then brushed the clean hair back with his fingers, away from Paul’s face. For a moment he sat back on his heels, just gazing at his mate.

“What,” Paul asked, looking slightly amused. “What’s that look?”

“Your hair,” John sighed. “How it curls when it’s all damp like that.” He leaned in, planting a firm kiss on Paul’s forehead. As he pulled away, Paul caught him by the shoulders and drew him near again. “Johnny, kiss me on the lips,” he urged. “…Please?”

“It’s swollen, love, don’t want to hurt you.”

“No, I don’t care. Wouldja kiss me, Johnny? _Please_?”

Lennon leaned in immediately, pressing his lips to Paul’s – gently, so gently, as not to cause even a moment’s pain – and Paul pressed back. Their eyes closed. Paul’s lips parted and John took a delicate swipe at them with his tongue, just daring a little sip of Paul, and then they just lingered there, within the kiss, all unhurried.

It was a chaste thing – sweet -- with no demand behind it from either of them, beyond the simple expression of truth in their love. And John felt it. Felt the warmth emanating from Paul, and the purity and weight of his own feelings welling up from deep within himself. Real love, needing to go nowhere else, be nothing more than what it was in this moment. His body almost shook as he felt that most basic reality stir at the deepest part of his soul. _It’s real, so real. We never made this up. Never could have_.

They broke from the kiss, chests heaving as they shared a breath, and John pressed his forehead to Paul’s. “I love you, Paul,” he whispered, trying to put everything he felt into his declaration. “ _I love you_. You’re my whole heart. You can't think how worried I was to lose you...”

He leaned back as they gazed at each other, both showing watery eyes.

“Am I ugly, now,” Paul gulped after a moment, one tear falling from his good eye.

John was horrified. “Jesus, Paulie, no! No!” He grasped Paul’s hand in his own and squeezed it tight. “Baby, I was just thinking that you look exactly like you did in Paris…like you’re nineteen years old and [you’ve just kissed me like James Cagney, on the bridge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119496), and fucking broken me, forever. Remember?”

He reached in, tracing Paul’s lone tear with a single fingertip. He wrung out a flannel, then, and gently wiped his lover’s face, removing any trace of anything bad, any…residue. Then he kissed both of Paul’s cheeks. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You always will be. And even if you weren’t, I would love you unto madness, you know. But you are.”

He couldn’t tell if Paul was reassured – the lad had a way of looking blank when he didn’t want to face something -- but John found himself shaken to his core to even hear the question asked -- _am I ugly, now_. Oh, he felt his heart cracking that Paul could ever ask it, and that a new insecurity must be at its root. “You just lay back, love, close your eyes.”

Paul obeyed, trying not to think about anything but John’s touch on his body, seeking out no memories except old ones, early moments between them, when their love was new. He sighed and relaxed into them. A soapy sponge was running across his chest, now, and down his arms… it felt so nice.

John was grateful to see Paul drift off a bit as he got down to business with the sponge, even though the bathwater was less than clean. He dipped both hands into the water, making a ring of them and then running them up Paul’s thighs to rinse them free of any residual muck. He let his mind wander, thinking about how much he had always loved Macca’s thighs – coltish when they were young, and still so lean and long. He could never resist kissing the soft insides high up, and nibbling there a little whenever his lips happened to be near the area. Paul’s whole body was perfect, in his reckoning, but those thighs – the hairiest things, but as shapely as a bird’s -- could still make him gasp aloud.

Finishing there, John finally addressed what he had wanted most to avoid. With the sponge, he very gently began to clean around Paul’s scrotum and the perineum, below. He hated going anywhere near his pained and wounded anus, delicately dabbing there. Intending only to swab around the penis, John was surprised to realize that Paul was half-erect when he touched him.

He looked up. Macca’s eyes were still shut, as was his expression, but after a beat he’d taken John’s hand, was now guiding it to him, closing John’s fingers around his shaft and then holding his hand in place, right there.

Lennon’s eyes closed as the silence between them grew. He tentatively let his thumb flit around the tip, felt Paul’s hardness grow.

What was this, now, he wondered. Did Paul need more reassurance – " _Am I ugly, now,"_ that terrible question – would it be a good thing or a bad thing, if John helped Paul to orgasm right now, in the midst of this filthy bath?

A bad thing, right? His gut revolted at the very idea.

And yet the thought came. _Do it. It will be a sign of victory – Paul’s giant ‘fuck you’ to all the jism we’ve just washed off, and the man (men?) who left it. As though to say ‘You didn’t win. I’m still the man I was…’_

Not completely certain whether he should, John nevertheless began working Paul, letting his fingertips graze on him, testing a small tug, and then another as a light groan escaped from his partner. _Victory_ , he thought again, as things began to progress and he went for it, taking a firmer grasp, and flicking his wrist.

And at that moment, it all went bad for Paul. He’d been uncertain about taking John’s hand, but at his lover’s familiar touch, his heart had seemed to settle down into a normal rhythm for the first time since he’d awoken, and he’d relaxed into it, feeling grateful that, whatever else was true, his function seemed intact – that he still wanted John, still wanted this. John’s touch, John’s attention, John’s love. _This is good. We’ll be alright…_

And then suddenly his head was full of images. Snippets of voices. Gruff laughter. Hands tugging at him, ripping at his clothes.

Rough hands on his chest, shoving him down, down. He could feel his head hit the carpeted floor and then someone on top of him.

Dizziness as though he could see, but not clearly, as though he was looking up from underwater, his chest tightening, his vision blurring. _Am I drowning? Am I going to die?_

_* * *_

Knees straddling near his face and his chin being held, squeezed hard. An engorged, red and purple cock being shoved into his mouth.

He was shaking his head, no, no, no, trying to pull away.

_“Take it all pretty, ‘way down your lovely throat…”_

Trying to move his head back…away…away from… _that_

He couldn’t breathe… gagging on the overwhelming scent of something he knew…a whiff of Bay Rum.

He was blacking out. His jaw was aching and he was choking and wanting to run away.

 _Trapped_ … then the fury coming, and the thought: _Fuckin’ kill you_ , as he tried to bring his teeth down, _fuckin’ bite it off_.

A loud yelp. He was free. He had to get up. Panting. Trying to rise.

A heavy smack – a full-handed slap that nearly took his head off and sent him reeling once more.

_“Bit me? Alright you’ll have it rough then, little man…”_

_* * *_

In the bath, Paul suddenly shot up, eyes wide with horror, his scream reverberating throughout the tiled room as he threw John’s hand off. “Help me,” he said, gasping for breath, trying to hold back a heave. “Gonna be sick.”

John managed to get the bucket under him just in time as Paul began to vomit violently, emptying the meager contents of his stomach and then retching again and again.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” John was repeating, over and over. “I’m sorry, I thought you wanted…oh Christ, I’m sorry, Paul.”

It took several minutes for Paul to stop shivering through the heaves -- until he felt able to hand off the bucket to John, wrapping his arms about himself. “Stop,” he choked out. “S’not you, John. Not you. Oh, God…oh God!”

Not knowing what was going on with Paul, or what to do, John grabbed a towel and simply lifted McCartney up into it, dragging him out of the tub and against his chest in an enormous hug, not even worrying about whether anything he did could hurt Paul. He just held on to him, murmuring at him as he held him tight. “It’s alright, baby, it’s alright. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

“Not you,” Paul’s voice was trembling, high-pitched and broken. “Not you, oh not you, I… I’ve…I saw something…oh, God, Johnny…”

John winced at Paul’s nearly tangible anguish and raised his head to heaven. _Christ. No. How bad is this going to be_?

Biting back his panic, he sat Paul down on the closed lid of the toilet and began to dry him. _Normalcy. Do normal things_. His let instinct lead him, grabbing more towels and intently blotting Paul’s body dry while continuing to murmur soothingly at him.

Macca was white as a sheet. He was quivering all over, his head down, teeth chattering, whether from the cool air or some interior chill owed to memory. He was producing sound, but no words, just a low incoherent tone that reminded John of an agonized animal, all confused and bereft of reason. A sound he’d heard on his cousin’s sheep farm, when a ewe in the throes of delivering a lamb could do nothing but live through the pain, suffer through it. The sound of a mere creature weakened, and helpless and fearful.

Paul was suffering; he seemed not to hear a word John was saying. John’s own heart felt torn from him, as though it had been ripped from his chest and tossed from an eightieth floor window, _smash_! He murmured “be right back” and slipped out, returning seconds later with pajamas. Macca seemed not to even see him, or to have any awareness of what was happening as he was helped into the beautifully made set Brian had provided for him. He winced as John lifted first one leg, then the other into the pants and then groaned aloud again as he raised Paul slightly to settle them on his hips.

The stabbing ache seemed to nudge his awareness a bit, and Paul lifted his dark head, his eyes looking dully around the room and then at John who had guided his arms into the jacket and was kneeling before him, now, doing up the buttons. He blinked a few times before finally frowning at his partner. “These aren’t mine.”

“No,” John said, trying to speak in a natural tone. _Normal, be normal._ “Brian gave them to you. Thought you’d not want…” _to be naked with me..._ He stopped, took a breath and let it out. “Thought you’d be comfortable in them.”

“Yeah,” Paul agreed, but lifelessly. “They feel nice.”

“Well, you know Brian,” John murmured, _being normal_ , “his stuff is all bespoke and top-notch.”

He felt Paul’s hands settle on his shoulders, the sort of full-palm touch Macca would use whenever he needed to guide John through crowds and airports, or to direct his gaze toward cameras Lennon could barely see.

“Love,” John started. “I’m glad it wasn’t me, you know... that it wasn't me touching you that...upset you. I’d never…do you… have you remembered something? Because you can tell me, Paul, I want to…I want to know what you want me to know.”

_What you might need me to know…Christ help us…_

Paul shook his head slowly, his dark eyes staring at something only he could see, something distantly beyond John, yet this hands pressed down, squeezing him for a second, as though confirming John was there, and then he was lightly stroking Lennon’s shoulders, just skimming across them and then back, as one might pet a cat or a dog, without thinking.

John just knelt there, letting his mate touch him in that way. He didn’t know if Paul meant to soothe him, but he felt soothed, nevertheless. Paul’s touch had always been naturally gentle, his lovemaking always innately tender, unless John asked for something different.

He didn’t mind feeling this soft touch, just now. It seemed to be consoling Paul, as well, to use his hands this way.

After another minute, John helped Paul get to his feet, asking “What can I do for you, babe, what can I get you? Are you hungry?”

“No,” Paul’s voice was low and still toneless. He was still looking at nothing, still seeming only half with-it – almost childlike as he took John’s hand and permitted himself to be led back into the bedroom, in small steps because walking did hurt. He seemed to snap out of it, though, at the sight of the two beds, one disheveled, the other showing a small stain of blood on its coverlet. The look in his eyes grew hard and sharp as he took it all in with a shudder. “No, I don’t want anything…Unless you can get yesterday back, for me. I’d like a different yesterday. Can you give me that?”

Yesterday _._

 _All my troubles seemed so far away_. It was all John could do to keep his composure. He’d been such a bastard to Paul over that damned song, and now he was regretting it, as he was regretting every one of the thousand moments he’d been too selfish, too eager to be scornful – and yes, too eager to be a little bit jealous – to do right this man, this great love of his life, now so nakedly wounded.

He threw the stained cover to the floor and held the sheet, motioning for Paul to get into bed.

Macca was still looking around. “Is that scotch,” he asked, nodding toward the bottle.

“Come on, love, get into bed and I’ll bring you a bit.”

Lennon poured out two fingers, watching as Paul gingerly slipped under the covers. The younger man drank it down in a toss and breathed through the burn while John undressed down to his drawers and then, lacking pajamas and not wishing to make Paul uncomfortable, slipped back into the hotel robe he had put on hours earlier, in expectation of a very different night. He slipped into bed without thinking, and then caught himself.

“Do you…would you rather I use the other bed,” he asked. “Can I…May I sleep with you, baby?”

“Where else would you sleep but with me,” Paul wondered at him. 

At that John smiled. It felt like his first half-genuine smile in years. He lifted Paul’s fingers to his lips, kissing them warmly. “Paulie, I want you to know…baby, you can tell me anything. _Everything._ We’re in this together, love. Whatever happens, we go through it together.”

In truth, he didn’t believe he could bear to hear a word, not a single word about Paul’s ordeal, but he also felt resolute that he would steel himself to it. _For perhaps the first time in your whole wretched life, you’re going to live for someone else, damn you, and not for yourself._

His inner demons were already mocking the sentiment but John meant it. He thought he meant it.

 _“_ I do mean it,” he said aloud, almost surprising himself. Leaning forward, he brushed Paul’s curls off his face and was pleased to see his partner holding his gaze, taking him seriously.

“I know,” John continued, his voice lowering as he forced the admission from himself. “I know I’ve let you down before, love. Too many times…I know it, you know it too.” He shook his head in regret. “I don’t know how many times. Too many, year after year. I don’t know how you’ve put up with me…forgiven me, even, but sweetheart…no matter what it is, however ugly, however hard…I will listen to you. You say whatever you want, whatever you must. Just tell me. And I promise, I will hear you and speak only the truth to you in return.”

John searched Paul’s eyes, hoping to find nothing guarded, there. “Do you believe me?”

Paul’s answer came after a beat. It wasn’t exactly what John wanted to hear, but perhaps it was what he needed to hear, and it acknowledged once again that no one on earth understood John Lennon better than Paul McCartney.

“I believe you want to try, Johnny.”

 _Well there’s some truth for you, Lennon_ , John thought. _Right between the eyes. And well do you deserve it._

Paul, still quite pale, had removed his hand from John’s grip and was stroking his arm, doing that petting thing again. “And that’s enough for me, you know... that you _try_.”

 _That’s so Paul. Such a Macca thing to say_. John leaned forward, pressing his lips to Paul’s once more, hoping to recapture that sweet moment they’d shared so recently, in that lingering kiss in the tub.

But hope fell, like a bad rocket launch. Paul received John’s lips stiffly, pulling back, as though stung. “I’m tired,” he complained, his eyes darting away.

He sounded tired, John noted.

But he also sounded…different. Was he afraid? “Of course, baby,” he whispered, feeling utterly confused by Paul as the younger man turned away from him, facing the wall and curling into himself, almost into a fetal position.

Now, that _wasn’t_ like Macca, John mused. Sure, the lad had always hugged himself into a ball when he was anxious or thinking deeply about something, but Paul was a stretcher and a bouncer in bed, always wide open because his active body needed to keep moving, even in slumber. The fetal position was much more John’s thing, especially if he was sleeping alone. But here was Paul, cocooned into himself, his back to John, completely closed off.

And oh, it was a misery for John to see this new unknown thing, this barrier he wasn’t sure he knew how to cross. All he wanted in that moment was to get close to Paul, to wrap his arms around him and spoon him, and lull him until he fell to sleep. It would be the right thing.

Instead, he lay there, feeling isolated and lonely on the other side of the bed, uncertain what to do. He began to reach out, thinking to rub Paul’s back, but stopped himself. What if he scared Paul? What if he didn’t want to be touched, now?

Whatever recollection had been brought to the fore in the past hour -- shot into Paul’s memory while John’s hand was on him – it had clearly rocked Paul down to his sinews. Before that, they had kissed and it had been a moment so pure, so alive, so full of hope. A moment that seemed like a pathway to going forward. To being healed, together. 

And after it – after the memory, _God what was it_? _Did he really want to know?_ He did but he didn’t, not really.

Now, in the course of one damnable instant -- everything was different. _What if Paul never wants to be touched again, or to touch me?_

On his back beside Paul, John itched to move closer, to feel any sort of connection with his partner’s body.

He dared not. Instead he looked up at the ceiling, remembering Paul reaching up in the bath, touching his hand, asking to be kissed. On the lips. _“Please, Johnny, wouldja kiss me?”_

It had been the most innocent, most heart-rending thing he’d ever heard from Paul’s lips, the sweetest kiss he could remember them sharing, and it seemed to have pulled something that felt almost holy from John’s depths, something that made him feel like he could be a better man than he ever was.

Something that made him believe in the bottomlessness of their love -- that if all he and Paul could ever share in the future were kisses like that one, so honest and mutually adoring, it would be enough for John.

He was so afraid, now. So very scared that even the chance to share that sort of kiss might have been taken from them.

Turning to look at Paul’s curled-up figure, John stretched out his hand again, permitting his fingertips only to graze the sheet that covered that his love like a shroud. He wondered how quietly he could cry.

John was not the only one wondering. Once again, in that weird symbiosis, that bizarre telepathy that existed between the two men, Paul too was thinking about that kiss, so beautiful, so alive between them, so right. More than anything in the world, he had wanted the kiss John had just offered him, had desired a repeat of that other, intense and immaculate moment.

But the instant John’s lips had touched Paul’s he had felt filthy, as though by allowing the kiss, he would be exposing John to something polluted and toxic. His mind had flown to the horrible memory, to the harsh growl, _take it all, now_ , and in Paul’s imagination his mouth could return nothing pure; it could only spew out rot – debris and filth, and sewage and black, corrupted putrescence.

He was ruined, spoilt. He wasn’t worthy of John, now. Or of that sort of kiss. He was too defiled to permit it.

 _I’m disgusting, now_ , Paul thought, his tears falling, silent and sideways, as he stared at the wall. Recalling the foul taste of a stranger in his mouth and the rage he felt as he tried to bite the thing away, he considered it possible, maybe even likely, that it might be all over for him, as a lover, as a partner. He might be too broken to ever kiss anyone, again. Too broken, maybe, to ever be able to look anyone in the eye.

Or to ever stop crying.

And John would always need someone, Paul knew. He wouldn’t be able to last with Paul unable to be what he required -- unable to give John all of himself. He’d learned the lesson so long ago…with John, every bit of Paul was the very least he would accept. And if Paul couldn't give it...

_Oh, God…_

With a throat so tight he could barely speak, he managed to croak out a whispered “Johnny…”

“Yes, babe,” John answered immediately. 

“I’m sorry…”

“ _What…_ ” It came out in a hiss and John, wiping his face with his sleeve, scooted toward Paul, no longer caring whether he wanted to be touched or not. He pulled at his partner’s shoulder until he was flat on his back and saw a look of pure agony on that singularly beautiful face, now covered in tears.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” John spat out between gritted teeth. “Nothing! You did nothing wrong. My darling, _you did nothing wrong_.”

“I’m filthy now,” Paul choked out, barely able to breathe the words, and John fell apart, his heart utterly breaking for the man he loved. “Don’t cry, baby, don’t cry,” he begged, kissing Paul's eyes, even as his own tears began to fall freely.

It was all they could do -- cling to each other and cry, each of them weeping over his own private vision of hell, full of the actual horrors of this night but flamed into something even worse by all of their unspoken imaginings, and the fear between them that seemed to say they must part. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The links within the texts give additional background to the long relationship between John and Paul, as I've imagined it. Not canon (perhaps quasi-canon, certainly head-canon), but they more or less go with this story.


	7. McCartney: Touched by Frost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While John's demons are whispering into his heart that he can be no help to Paul, Brian serves tea and announces that -- having realized that the men who hurt Paul might still be on the premises -- he has re-invited Dawson, the house detective, into the matter. Paul, his memory still deficient, is understandably disturbed to hear John and Brian discuss the "men" at issue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this not-happy story and for all of your encouraging comments. This chapter is much shorter than the last, and it gives both John and Paul a chance to find their sea legs in this very new situation. I wrote it while there were people talking all around me in my house, so I hope it's coherent. 
> 
> Next chapter will see the return of Dawson (who brings some ugly realities and concerns to the surface, that none of these three had considered), and shift the scene a little.

John awoke slowly, blinking eyelids still heavy with sleep and the weight of too many tears, and the moment felt familiar in a terrible way – like the morning after Julia’s death, when [he’d reached out to ground himself in Paul and found only an empty bed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/46040941). The weirdly paradoxical feeling of being unsafe, utterly trapped within all that emptiness.

The bed was empty. _Paul was gone!_

John shot up from his pillow, eyes wide open now, calling out his lover’s name.

A billow of smoke answered him from a nearby chair. Paul was up, already fully dressed, Brian’s pajamas neatly folded on the dresser. The lad was simply sitting, one hand gripping his opposing shoulder tightly, the other holding a cigarette. He was staring off into some place only he could see, and gnawing on his bottom lip as though he wished to bite it off. 

Lennon rose gingerly, not wishing to startle, and took a knee beside the chair. “How are you, love?” He touched the sore-looking lips with a finger as though to end the torment. Paul immediately replaced his teeth with the ciggie, inhaling deeply as he shifted his whole body away from John and closed his eyes.

 _It’s not about you, it’s not about you_ , John tried to remind himself, even as he raised a fist to his own mouth to stifle the moan he felt arising from the deepest, most wounded place inside his own soul. _It feels like rejection but it’s not about you, it’s just last night…_

No, it wasn’t about him. Intellectually, John understood that. Another part of him, though, felt devastated to see Paul turn away. That small action invited all of John’s lifelong demons to come out and frolic, tearing at his heart, shredding it to pieces, line by practiced line: _He doesn’t want you here, you have nothing to offer him, anymore. He blames you for not being there. It’s all your fault. He doesn’t love you, now…_

“Oh, Paul,” his voice cracked. He reached out to that back, so full of tension, and began to stroke gentle circles. “Paul, please. Don’t leave…” he whispered. “Don’t shut me out.”

His partner tamped out the cigarette and folded his other arm around himself as John had seen him do a thousand times when he was preoccupied, or when he needed a particular consolation that he couldn’t get from anywhere else – when he needed a mother’s embrace. His head was ducked down until he seemed a turtle in hiding. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and gruff. “Not shutting you out. Don’t want to cry anymore. Go away if you’re gonna cry.”

“I’m not…” John gulped through a tight throat. “I’m not crying, love. I just… I just want to help. Do you want breakfast?”

He felt, rather than saw, Paul shake his head.

 _He doesn’t want you, anymore_ , came the awful voices in his head. _You can’t help him, fool, you can barely help yourself…_

As tempting as it was to follow that thought, to let it lead him where it always did -- straight into the empty circuit of self-pity and need that had never once served him well -- John battled the familiar feeling back. _For once you’re going to live for Paul_ , he reminded himself.

“What can I do for you?” He asked in a determined voice. “Can I rub your back? Sweetheart, can you look at me?”

“No…” it was a bare, tortured whisper.

John groaned, leaning his forehead against Paul’s knee for a moment. He was hoping Paul might reach out a hand and touch his head, signal to him in that way that he actually wanted John there with him, even if all he could handle was John’s presence. 

The signal didn’t come. They simply remained like that – Paul turned away, cocooned within himself, John like a supplicant begging attention at his knee – as though they’d both been touched by frost and could not quite move. John allowed himself, for just a moment, to acknowledge that he wanted to run screaming away from the reality that was currently overwhelming both of them, but then he gathered in a big breath, told himself to buck it up, and exhaled as he stood. He laid a hand on Paul’s shoulder.

“I’m going to order breakfast and you’re going to eat.”

Paul raised his eyes enough to give him an agonized look, and then turned away. “Not hungry.”

“You’re having porridge and pancakes,” John answered without considering. Before John could pick up the phone for room service, there was a light tapping at the door, and Eppy’s muffled voice, asking to be let in.

John Lennon was never so happy to open a door. He needed Brian’s support, now. He felt like he needed a million hands of support to do right by Paul McCartney at that moment.

Brian stepped in and before he could ask a question, John was hauling him toward his partner, who was in the process of lighting another cigarette.

Paul looked up at Brian and gasped, “Oh, Christ.” He let his head fall into his hand. Epstein looked at John with a raised eyebrow, and John pushed him forward, whispering. “Be natural. I’m going to shower and get dressed.”

“I need to talk to both of you,” Brian started.

“Please, I need to shower and dress. I need to wash last night off of me.”

“Oh,” Brian lowered his voice and brought his head nearer. “It was that bad?”

John widened his eyes at Eppy in a deliberate way, looking as if he’d seen a ghost. “That bad,” he agreed as he took off for the bathroom. “Order breakfast.”

“It’s already on the way,” came the answer, because when circumstances were dire, Brian always defaulted into an efficiency mode, and this was one of those times.

He approached the young man in the chair with careful steps and as quiet a mien as he could manage. “You wouldn’t have another one of those, would you,” he motioned toward the cigarettes. Paul handed off the pack, his head turned as far away as possible.

“Thanks. Got a light?”

Paul closed his eyes with an impatient sigh, his hand gesturing vaguely toward his lighter, on the table. He was disinclined, at the moment, to be gentlemanly and offer to open it for him.

“How are you, Paul?”

Silence.

“Look, you don’t have to feel like…as though you have to say anything, or tell me anything. You probably don’t remember, but I was here last night, I…” he paused to light up. “I know all of it.”

Paul turned, finally, looking at Brian with a scalding expression on his face. “ _Do you_ , now? And how do you know, ‘ _all of it_ ’, Brian? If you know ‘all of it’ then maybe you care to enlighten me? Because all I remember is … nothing I can ever speak out loud. Not ever.”

The tone was pure McCartney at his most furious, but with a tinge of something new and unfamiliar to Brian, a mocking bitterness laced with fear that had always been more suited to John when he was at his worst.

“I’m sure you have questions,” Brian said. There was a knock at the door. _Room service, thank God_. He’d never needed a cup of tea so badly. He held the door close, signing for it and then wheeling the cart in himself. No staff would be permitted to see the wreckage of the room, nor the wreckage of McCartney, on his watch.

“I didn’t know what you might like,” he said to Paul as he began lifting trays, “so I ordered…well, everything. Toast, eggs, porridge, bacon, sausages, pancakes, fig cakes, biscuits, coffee and tea…”

At the mention of tea Paul’s head came up. No one in England, Epstein knew, loved his morning cup of tea more than James Paul McCartney. He licked his lips at Brian, who immediately structured an entire narrative around tea as he poured a cup, rattling on about the difference between oolong and Earl Grey, why he preferred Earl Grey in the evening, why the British preferred tea over coffee. “Milk and two sugars, I think, yes?” When Paul nodded ‘yes’ Brian added three sugars, finally handing it off to him and preparing a cup of his own.

They drank in silence for several minutes, both of them sighing as they lowered their cups into clinking china saucers. The scent, the taste, that _clink_ , it all felt so comfortingly familiar.

“Ta for that,” Paul murmured automatically.

“You should eat something, Paul,” Eppy said.

Another shake of the head. “Where’s John?” Paul asked. “Why is he gone so long?”

“He’ll be done showering soon. I want to talk to both of you.”

A shrug. A gulp of tea. A turn of the head, away.

Feeling ill-suited to the moment, Brian spooned some eggs on to a plate, and delicately chose one perfect-looking sausage from a full serving dish. “You know, Paul,” he said as he munched, trying to follow John’s advice and be natural, “what happened last night…it changes nothing in our regard for you. It doesn’t change anything, mean anything, to the man you are.”

Paul lifted his chin, looking angry and appalled, interpreting Brian's reassurances as too overly-insistent -- _he doth protest too much_ \-- to be true. "It doesn’t _mean_ anything? Did you just say that to me?”

“You know what I’m saying, Paul, even if I have said it badly,” Eppy corrected, blushing bright red. “Of course it has meaning, but it doesn’t change anything, you’re still _a man_ , you’re still have people who love you -”

“Oh, get out,” Paul murmured, covering his eyes. “Just go, Brian.”

“I’m going nowhere, Paul. I’m sorry that came out wrong. I'm not entirely sure how to say what I want to tell you. But I’m staying and we do need to talk.”

John emerged from the shower, bringing a welcome scent of lemon and rosemary into the room. Paul took a big sniff of it, closing his eyes. He loved John’s cologne. Sometimes he wouldn’t wear his own, so he could enjoy John’s scent on his own clothes, on his hands. For a moment, he permitted himself to find some consolation as the fragrance wafted all around him.

“Well, John,” Eppy said in a hearty voice. “We were just missing you, weren’t we Paul?”

Paul came out of his reverie and shot him another scathing look. “Don’t do that. Don’t talk about me like I’m a patient and you’ve just fed me my gruel.”

“Well, here I am, love.” John took Paul’s teacup and poured him another. “He was looking for you,” Eppy whispered as they bent over the cart. John’s heart lifted to hear it.

“Have seconds, babe,” he said gently. He kissed Paul’s cheek before handing him his refreshed cup of tea, and then got coffee for himself. _He let me kiss him, didn’t turn away_. A definite improvement, he thought, feeling slightly bouyed as he heard Brian clear his throat to speak.

“I do think we should all eat,” he started, “but either way, I need both of you to give me your attention, now, before Mr. Dawson arrives.”

“Dawson,” John recollected, “the detective bloke?”

“Yes, I’ve asked him to meet with us, here.”

Paul’s dark frown was eloquent of his displeasure at Brian who began to understand that for this day he’d be playing the role of Paul McCartney’s whipping boy. “Who’s this, now?”

“Hotel detective, love,” John said, bringing his chair near to Paul’s, “a good man.”

“No.”

“I’m afraid we really must meet with him,” Epstein added.

“No,” Paul looked up to John for support. “No, John, tell him. _Tell him_ , no one can know--”

“Shh, shush, Paulie,” John took his shoulders, pressing into them lightly. “He’s a good man, really, and if Eppy thinks we should talk to him-”

“I believe we must,” Brian repeated.

“No,” Paul’s eyes were wide and becoming wet. “Please, John, why? I don’t _want_ this.”

“Baby, baby, it’s all right,” John soothed, taking Paul’s face into his hands, smoothing his hair off his face. “Macca, it’s okay, I’ve met him and I trust him. We can both trust him…”

“After what I saw last night,” Brian said in a strained voice, “I believe we need his help. It occurred to me after I left that the men who did this could even now be here, in the hotel.”

John’s eyebrows went up to his hairline as he grabbed Paul's hand. “Still here! Yes, that might be true! Eppy, we might be able to…maybe Dawson can track them down, do you think?”

“No…” Paul objected in a soft voice.

“Possibly, John,” Brian said, “but we mustn’t get our hopes up. We have to decide whether we want a confrontation with these men.”

“No…no _men_ …” Paul repeated, his tone getting smaller as he pulled his hand away. How could they sound so casual about this?

John looked at Paul and thought he understood what he meant. “We don’t want a confrontation with them, right, Paul? Just to find out who they are, and see to them ourselves?”

“Men? _Them_?” Paul’s voice rose almost to a shout. “What are we _talking_ about? Johnny, you keep talking in plurals... _How many ‘_ men’? Why do you both think there were ‘men’?” He moved to stand, because at that moment all he wanted was to walk away from the conversation, and found himself immobilized by the stabbing pains in his lower back -- the burn within his anus, every time he moved.

Men. 

Of course. The bruises and bleeding. The utter mess and muck John had bathed him free of.

He couldn't be this badly hurt from one man.

 _Men._ Plural.

John's head was down. Brian's too. Neither would meet Paul's eyes.

"Oh, Christ," he murmured. "Not just one."

 _You will not crumble, you will not crumble_ , Paul repeated it to himself as his stomach churned. _You will not crumble, but Oh, Christ. Gang-...a gang. A fucking gang of toffs. Who might still be here, just outside the door. They could be here, on this floor. Just down the hall._

A gang...and he'd been raped.

His mind jumped to a memory years ago, lying on his mother's grave and asking her, ["Mum, can you see me?"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/46944346) _Christ, could she see this?_

He couldn't bear the thought of his mother in the ether, able to watch, to see him like that.

John saw him blanch and stagger and rose to help, quietly urging his mate to sit, again. Paul’s head fell against the back of the chair and he covered his eyes, mumbling something to himself that John thought sounded like an old prayer, _ut miserere mei, et pecc_ -something -- a Latin phrase. He took several deep breaths. After a moment, lowering his hands and curling them into fists, Macca trained his dark expression on Brian, and spoke in a low, cold and dangerously controlled-sounding voice. “What did you mean, ‘after what you saw last night’, Brian? What exactly did you see?”

Caught entirely off his guard, Brian placed his teacup noisily on the cart and looked down at his hands, suddenly interested in his cuticles. "Paul," he said, finally looking up into the furious stare of The McCartney, "I'm not sure the details matter."

“You'll answer me, though, Bri. I don’t want to meet this Dawson fella -- someone you’ve invited into my _private_ business, into my _personal_ life,” Paul emphasized, eyes flashing as he leaned back, suddenly looking like a chieftain ready to lay down the law. “But since you’ve done this, now... I think you need to tell me everything. I’ll be damned if I’ll know less than a house detective about my own life.”

He turned to John. “You too,” he added, and watched as John's face betrayed a wince, his demons once more rising within, _you're going to fail him, Lennon. You always do._

“It’s time to tell me everything you know, everything that happened that you know. _Everything_ , Brian,” he commanded.

His faced John, his eyes softening a bit as they read the distress on his partner's face. “ _Everything_ , John. I need to know it all.”


	8. "It was me...I brought this on myself..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House detective John Dawson, a retired police officer, shows up on Brian's invitation, and a great deal is said and sorted through. For Paul, it becomes clear that his nightmare is only beginning. Everyone is really having a hard time, this chapter, although Dawson's surprising tenderness helps, and John actually manages to make his partner smile before he completely falls apart. Next chapter will see Dawson finally getting a chance to share the worst of his worries with the lads, and Paul will have to face new fears, large and small.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks, thank you once more for sticking with this story. I had hoped to make a bit more progress in this chapter, but Paul got really steely and bossy and then there was filth and bad memories and it got longer than I'd planned. Next chapter will make some terrible things pretty plain to all of us. And then maybe we will be able to leave the hotel, if Paul can stand it. He wants to go somewhere, anyway...

Paul was still processing what little he’d been able to glean from John and Brian when Dawson arrived.

It had been hard going, just getting the two men to talk plainly, but Paul had made it all the more difficult, and time consuming, by constantly interrupting with questions, and they were not pleasant ones.

“What color was the hair of the fella you saw me talking to, John? What do you mean you don’t remember? How can you not remember?”

And:

“You were drawing doodles? You showered and drew doodles for an hour while I was…you didn’t even think to come down and try to find me?”

And:

“Wait, the bartender said he’d not seen me, and you said I’d specifically told you I was going over to Brian, at the bar. That didn’t ring a bell for you?”

John, hearing his partner jump on his every sentence and coldly, logically question his way through, felt like Paul was justified in harassing him. His own words, his own answers and excuses seemed to indict him as being too lazy, too complacent, too self-interested to get dressed and go look for Paul. At one point it occurred to John that had he done so, he might have seen Paul being hauled through a corridor by a bunch of “fellow honorees” – those men who might yet be in the building – and his hand went involuntarily to his mouth as he swallowed by a rising bile.

He wanted to weep, wanted to give in to an urge to cry ugly and unleash great, honking sobs for all the ways he now believed he had failed Paul, and even more for the way Paul was looking at him as he sat so motionless, those expressive dark eyes flashing in anger one moment, and seeming to shut down the next.

 _Those eyes_ , the ones John would do anything to see spark in amusement at him once more. Just once more. _I could die. I could cry._

But crying would only make this all about him, and so John Lennon remained beside Paul McCartney, as he had been for all of these years, only this time sitting forward with his head bowed and staring at the floor – because seeing raw pain mixed with disappointment in those beloved eyes was more than he could bear – and quietly admitting again and again, that once more, and in the most awful of ways, he had failed Paul.

He had failed at remembering useful details because he’d never paid attention to what wasn’t about himself.

He had failed at being even remotely curious and concerned, early on, because self-amusement always came first. Those damned doodles. _Paul would have wondered where I was earlier. He’d have gone looking for me. He wouldn’t have sat around like a toddler, drawing pictures._

He had failed at simple logic, ( _I’m sorry, sir, I never saw Mr. McCartney…_ ) because all he could process in that moment was that his own needs were not being met.

Failed at love, because…well, because by the time he’d managed to ring up Eppy, it should have been to express real concern, not to demand he send Paul up to him with the promised drinks so playtime could commence.

 _Spoiled brat, that’s what you are. You never deserved him. You’re less than useless. And now, look what you’ve done_. John’s inner demons were getting louder, beginning to take full possession of his psyche, and he was letting them. _Look at what your ‘love’ for Paul has done to him. Everything you love, you destroy. Why are you even here_? _Why didn’t you kill yourself years ago?_

“I think you’re being a bit hard on John, Paul,” Brian had spoken up then, having observed the naked distress on John’s face, and in his body language.

The icy look Paul shot to Brian left the manager reeling. He’d worked with this lad for nearly four years and knew the strength of his intellect, and the surprising steeliness of his resolve, both qualities valuable to a band led by so mercurial a genius as Lennon. But it was the first time he’d seen absolute fury in McCartney, and it literally caused him to take a step back. “We’re a matched set,” John had once told Brian in casual conversation. “We’re both the smartest boys in the room. We’re both able to put it on for the crowds. We’re both witty and charming when we want to be, and we’re both angry as hell most of the time. My anger is just nearer the surface, you know. I run at a constant simmer. Paul’s is deeper, and frankly cold, cold, cold if you get near it. He’s a good lad, all-in-all, but in some ways, if he weren’t so pretty, he’d be terrifying.”

Brian had thought John was simply riffing as usual, but now, having seen the well-hidden fury that lay at the core of James Paul McCartney, he hoped never to glimpse it again.

“No,” John had answered Brian quickly. “He’s right to ask. I was all about myself.” He turned toward Paul, still avoiding his eyes. “I am so sorry I failed you, Macca. I did.”

Paul was still staring at Brian, leaning back in his chair like a boss, his head propped up with two fingertips. His tone, when he finally spoke, was controlled but cool. _Chilling_ , to Brian’s mind.

“I’m only asking questions, Bri. John knows that. Do you have something to add to any of this, yet? Or shall we move on? For instance, I thank you for the use of your pajamas, but what happened to my clothes? Where are they?”

“I have them,” Brian admitted timidly after a beat. “They’re down in my room, in a bag.”

“Why do you have my clothes, Brian,” that cold, cold tone. “Please go get them, I’d like to have them back.”

“He was just trying to--” John began.

“I thought you shouldn’t see them, Paul.” Brian rushed the answer, guessing that John’s defending him would only serve to further enrage The McCartney. “I meant to burn them when I got home.”

“Why should --”

Thankfully, it was at that moment the house detective knocked, and Brian was relieved to think someone less frightening than this hellish version of Macca would be asking questions.

The investigator, a bear of a man with rough, mitt-sized hands, used them to greet Brian and then John, to whom he also shot a warm, reassuring smile. Paul, sitting quietly, was quick to observe that John had risen to greet the older man, seeming both relieved to see him and comfortable in his presence.

He understood why almost immediately. Dawson drew a small ottoman before Paul and sat directly in his line of vision. He didn’t offer his hand, but waited, content to make his own study of the silent young man, until Paul’s eyes finally settled on his own. When he spoke, it was in a low voice that poured out like warm honey and ginger. “Mr. McCartney, my name is John Dawson. I’m a retired police officer and I now function here as house detective. I am quite sure you do not want me here and would prefer not to know my name, or even of my very existence at this moment.”

Paul’s attention was sparked. He was even slightly amused by that forthright acknowledgement -- enough so that he gave the man a slight nod of the head that said, “continue.”

Dawson nodded back. _A ‘noble scruff’ indeed_ , he thought to himself. _Self-possessed lad with the watchful manner of an old-time prince, from back in the day, when princes still had some steel in their spines, and knew who they were. And he’s holding himself together by the skin of his teeth_. 

Feeling confident that he’d read Paul correctly, the detective leaned in. “Before we speak a syllable or open up any serious discussion, I want you to hear from my own lips that not a word uttered here will ever go beyond that door, that my discretion is absolute. I was a copper for twenty-five years, sir, and it has become a sacred thing with me. If people put their personal sufferings before me, I honor their stories and their trust all the way to my bones.”

Dawson saw Paul’s intent interest in the steadiness of his gaze, and in the way one eyebrow lifted ever so slightly, and his volume became softer, as though he wanted only Paul to hear. “I know what it is to live within the unreasonable restraints of society, son, and the too-ready intrusions upon us that are made into private matters that should be of concern to no one else. I do not speak of the business of others to anyone, not even the police, unless that person specifically asks me to. And for lads like you and Mr. Lennon, here, for whom privacy must be held at a real premium, that goes doubly true.”

Paul slouched further in his chair, considering as he began to nibble at a rough patch on his thumb. John, noting no outright rejection by his partner, took a knee between the two men and dared to lightly move the lad’s hand from his lips, as he’d done a million times before. “Paul, you might not want to hear it from me, I know,” he said, “but for what it’s worth, I do trust him. Please, let’s talk to him.”

It was tense for a moment and then McCartney did two things. He squeezed John’s hand, ever so lightly before letting go, and then extended it to Dawson, sitting up in his chair. “I can see you are a gentleman, Mr. Dawson,” Paul said in a soft voice as he shook the man’s hand. “John and Brian were just beginning to tell me what they can. Let’s all hear everything, then. I know I must.”

“A good decision, sir, thank you,” Dawson approved, rising to his feet. “Mr. Epstein, here, has asked me in to give what assistance or advice I can, but I know only that you were held against your will last night, and that you did not find your way back here only to fall asleep from the drink.” He pulled a small notebook from his suit jacket – noting that McCartney pulled a similar book from his own suit, along with a pen -- and John and Brian proceeded to repeat all they’d said to Paul, little as it was.

“Alright,” Dawson said, reading what he had in summary, “what happened once I left here from meeting you? When I returned you said this young man was sleeping, and that all was well.” He raised an eyebrow in Eppy’s direction. “That was not the truth, then?”

“It was not, no,” Brian admitted. He looked briefly at Paul. “We didn’t know what was going on, you see, Paul. I was trying to control what I could.”

“Thank you, Brian,” Paul muttered. “So, what happened. Did I just show up here?”

“Well, not exactly-”

“It was the phone call first,” John interrupted. “We thought it was you calling.” As John described what had next occurred, the laughter, the jeering words, Dawson listened intently.

“Can you remember, Mr. Lennon, the exact words,” Dawson asked. 

“I don’t-” John suddenly seemed at a loss. “They said something about an attitude, that you’d had an attitude.”

Paul frowned. “An attitude? Me? At that party?”

“What they said,” Brian quoted exactly, feeling ashamed of the spiteful satisfaction – lasting a mere second but it was there -- that he took in saying the words. Paul had been such a bastard this morning. “They said, ‘your little man has a big attitude and we’ve adjusted it for him’. That’s all.”

“No,” John corrected. “It was worse than that. They said ‘we’ like it was a group, and something about ‘letting you stay awake for it next time’…and then they said you were at the door. We opened it and…you were there, against it, out cold. And we brought you in.” He looked at Dawson. “That’s all.”

“That seems like quite a lot. Do you think you would recognize the voice? Did it sound like anyone you’d spoken to at the gathering?”

“No. _No_!” John said, looking at Paul, who had turned pale. “I wouldn’t have, you know. I was yellin’ and all I wanted to know was where you were, Paul. I’m sorry, I didn’t pay attention to the voice.”

“Mr. McCartney, can you think of anyone you might have put off, downstairs? Someone who might have found you a bit arrogant, or cheeky?”

Paul squinted up at John. He had been jotting down a note but his pen had stopped as his hands became cold as ice and his focus narrowed. _Next time_? _Attitude_?

“Mr. McCartney?”

 _Little man_. The words were spinning in Paul’s head. _Alright, you’ll have it rough then, little man…_ He closed his eyes, resting his forehead in his shaking hand, and swallowed a few times, fighting to keep the tea in his empty stomach. _Little man. Next time._

No. _Fucking no._

“Mr. McCartney,” Dawson repeated. “Is there something you remember?”

“No,” he answered. “Nothing new. But there can’t be a ‘next time’. What does ‘next time’ mean?”

“Very likely it means nothing, son,” Dawson said quietly. “It’s a way of speech.” Still he shot a grave look in John’s direction.

As the narrative continued, it all got worse and worse for Paul, who could not hold back his own questions or exclamations of disgust. “They left me there, right on the door? Where anyone could have seen me?”

“We had you as soon as he said the words, hon,” John reassured him. “No one could have seen you. If they had, someone would have…” He took a breath. “Someone would have screamed.”

“But they left me at the door!” Paul’s voice was rising. “They left me at the door and they called you. If no one saw me, it means…” He looked up at Dawson, his face now showing open panic. “They must have been nearby, had a room nearby, right? If they could call in such short order?” A look of horror dawned. “What if they were right here? What if…what it if was all happening just a few doors away? Oh, God…”

Dawson returned to his seat before Paul, urging John to pour a finger of scotch, which he handed to the younger man. “Early for this, but have it down. Your deductive reasoning is not at fault, sir. You’re actually thinking like a copper. And what you suggest is not impossible. It might even be likely.”

John began to pace, rubbing roughly at his hair. “Christ, it could have been the next room? What do we do? What do we do? Can we just – let’s just go pounding on the doors, then, we’ll find them! Let go of me, Brian,” he snarled as Eppy grabbed one of his arms. “We can find them, and I’ll kill them. _I’ll kill them_.”

Dawson was up, one huge hand coming down on John’s shoulder. “Pull yourself together, lad. As good an idea as that sounds, they’re probably already gone.”

John was having none of it. “No, they might still be here!” He raged. “They might be waiting to watch what happens, to see us, leaving, to see Paul… to watch him barely walking on his own.” 

“It’s unlikely,” Dawson soothed, “but son, I promise, when we’re through here, I’ll make a note to check the registry and see who else was nearby and might have checked out in the small hours, but you know, the whole group had a breakfast over an hour ago downstairs, and most of them are already left. If you’d called me sooner, perhaps-”

“ _Christ Almighty_ ,” came a soft moan from behind them. The smell of spilled liquor filled the room as Paul’s untouched scotch tumbled from his hand and landed on the carpet. The young man was holding his head in both hands, rocking slightly in his chair. “I did this. I did this to myself. Oh, Christ, this is my fault, all mine. _I brought this on myself. Oh, God…”_

Paul raised his head, eyes closed, unable to look at them. “It was me. I remember. I did it. There was this older fella, earlier in the night, just after the supper. He asked why John and I weren’t wearin’ our medals, and I said they looked good enough in the box. An’ he asked whether I didn’t think they were important enough to wear and I said…God, I don’t remember exactly. Something about…how if I did, that might be better than thinking they were too important and never takin’ ‘em off.”

John shook off the hands and rushed to Paul’s side. He had no idea what to say, but he laid a hand at the spot where his neck met the shoulder, the same spot Paul would so often touch when John needed to feel him nearby.

“I did this, John,” Paul repeated, looking up at him. “I’ve been flingin’ bullets at you and Brian all day just because I could and it was me got us into this, all along. My fucking mouth.”

“I’d have said exactly the same thing to him, love. It was just a cheek. He should have laughed.”

“He didn’t laugh.” Paul choked the words out. “He showed me his teeth, like a smile, but not really. Like he was insulted…oh Christ, this is my fault.”

“Mr. McCartney, this is most certainly not your own fault,” Dawson’s words were direct, and his tone firm as he once more sat before Paul, moving the ottoman even closer to get the lad’s attention. “There’s no saying that you did anything more than annoy whoever you were speaking to, but even if you’d given grave insult, it would not justify what has happened to you.”

Paul was attempting to get out of his seat, wincing and trying to lift himself. The need to get away from everything, from his very self, felt so urgent he could barely hear what the detective was saying, let alone understand it. Dawson put his hands on his shoulders, not moving John’s away, and held him steady. “Mr. McCartney, you must look at me, you must hear me.”

Paul’s whole body seemed to collapse in on himself as he went almost limp. “I want to go,” he moaned, closing his eyes once more. “I want to go, now…”

“Where do you want to go, love,” John asked softly, giving a look and a shake of the head to Dawson, who backed off. “We’ll take you home, soon, yeah?” Paul was shaking his head, ‘no’. Realizing ‘home’ was a bad offer – that Jane Asher or her family were likely the last people Paul might want to see -- Lennon tried again. “Or do you want to come to mine, and see Cynthia and Jules?”

“No…no, I don’t want to see anybody, _I just want to go_. Let’s just _go_ , John. Let’s get out of here…I can’t stay here…” He sounded so lost, his Paul, and John’s heart felt like it was shattering in a million pieces.

“Baby,” his voice cracked as the childlike plea kept coming. _I just want to go…_ “Oh, sweetheart, soon, I promise…I’ll take you anywhere you want to go…anywhere…” He was rubbing small circles over Paul’s lower back, where John knew he ached. “We’re almost done here, aren’t we, Dawson,” he asked the detective out loud, his whole focus on his beloved. “If you think they’re gone, there’s not much you can do for us, anymore then, is there?”

Dawson’s own head was lowered and the burly man was biting his own lip, as though he would prefer to say something other than he needed to. Finally, he raised his eyes, and once more John was struck by strange look of _knowing_ that he saw in him, that empathy he had imagined he’d seen in Dawson the first time they’d met. 

None had noticed but while John and the detective were trying to resettle Paul, Eppy had left the room. He returned now, letting himself in with John’s key, and carrying a crumpled paper bag. He handed it to Dawson. “The only thing left for us to tell you…” he said. “Well…it tells its own tale.”

Dawson frowned at Epstein, not appreciating the interruption, but Paul suddenly became very alert, instantly snapping out of his collapse and leaning forward. “Are those my clothes? I want to see them!”

Brian’s answer was in the thin, tight line of his mouth. "So you've said, Paul. I think you shouldn't."

“I need to see,” Paul repeated.

“Well, then, if you’re sure, Mr. McCartney, let’s take our time and both see what we see,” John Dawson reluctantly agreed.

As soon as he opened the bag, the scent of blood and sex rose from it, and Paul blanched. John kept his hand where it was, and closed his eyes. He could feel his Macca reaching for him, for the very first time since it had all gone bad, and laying his own chill hand upon John’s.

“The contents appear to be a single white shirt, button down,” Dawson’s inventory sounded both official and automatic, the product of decades of this sort of unsettling work wrought ordinary. “One gentleman’s leather belt and a pair of trousers. There is a distinctly metallic smell, possibly of blood.” He looked up at Paul. “Do you still wish to see these, items, Mr. McCartney?”

His hand still on John’s, the young man had closed his eyes against an unwelcome image – hands on his chest, his shirt being ripped from him. Paul nodded. “Yes. But, wait… that’s all there is? No jacket, no tie?” Paul swallowed with difficulty and looked at his partner. “No drawers? John, they have my clothes? My _drawers_?”

“It’ll be alright, Paul, you don't need them.” John murmured to him. “If you really want to see, then let’s just…let’s get through this…”

Dawson lifted the full contents with one hand, barely able to conceal his disgust as the rank odor became stronger. He was out of practice, he realized, no longer used to handling such foulness. Keeping his tone as coolly professional as he could, he continued his assessment. “The belt is black, fairly new, and in good condition, showing no evidence of…hmm.” He examined the buckle closely and then put it aside. “No identifiable evidence of stresses, blood or tissue. The shirt,” he unfolded it before them, noting that a piece of ragged paper fluttered from it, which he immediately retrieved.

“The shirt is formal, heavily starched, with several buttons missing, as though it has been torn open. There are numerous stains of what appears to be blood.” He glanced up at Paul, who was at that moment biting his lip as though his life depended on it. “Lips are very vascular, son, so they bleed profusely with even minor injury.”

“Yes, I know,” came the murmur, as though from a distance.

“The trousers,” Dawson began.

“Wait, go back,” Paul said. “What was that you picked up? That paper?”

John cursed his partner for having all the observational skills he himself lacked and thought this might be a good time to light two cigarettes, one of which he silently thrust into Paul’s trembling hand. Macca brought it to his lips by pure habit, and inhaled deeply, seeming to calm as he exhaled a huge plume of smoke. “What’s that paper,” he repeated.

“I’m going to guess nothing, good, Mr. McCartney, especially given Mr. Lennon’s behavior, but let’s have a look.” Dawson opened the small paper and held it a bit away from himself in order to read. After a moment, he sighed, saying, “well, sir, it’s your right to read it. And I think I’ve got your number enough to know you’d insist upon it if I tried to stop you. But perhaps your partner can persuade you to let one this go.”

Paul gave him a steady gaze as he reached for it. After a glance at John, who looked grim, he read it for himself.

_He was delicious. In every way._

“Fuckers,” he said quietly, staring straight ahead, his jaw tightening. And then, in a much louder, almost sneering tone, “I should have bitten his dick right off.” He handed the note back to Dawson, who tucked it into the shirt pocket.

“You’ve remembered something, then,” Dawson asked quietly.

“Yes,” Paul bit out. “Nothing that can help with…any of this,” he waved a hand. “But yes, I've remembered a little bit. I’ll not say more.”

“What is not helpful, I would not want to hear, lad," the older man said in a gentled tone. "That’s yours, and yours only to tell or not.”

Macca looked up, surprised at such a tender tone coming from a man of such a background, such a rough career. Where does that come from in a cop? “Do you have a son, Dawson?” he asked.

“No,” Dawson coughed as though he was covering up a heavy feeling. “No sons, nor daughters. Never married. Are you ready to move on?”

Paul nodded, wondering what had been behind the extreme softness of Dawson’s expression. _We all carry our own weights_ , he thought.

Brian decided he couldn’t bear to see the trousers again and plopped himself on the edge of one bed. He felt sickened by the assault on his senses. The coppery tang of the blood brought the previous night home too fully, and Paul’s bitter wish – what it suggested of his ordeal -- was doing him in. Old memories of his own were rising, of past bullies and endured indignities. He too, he realized, was wishing they could _just go._ Somewhere away from all of this. 

“The trousers,” Dawson continued, after another throat-clearing, “formal, black, fitted, torn at several seams. The fly is…it appears to be jammed, and not fully functional. Nearly the whole of the fabric is stained and/or crusted at the hip and leg portions with…what appears to be dried blood and perhaps semen.” Across from him, he could hear a soft groan and looked up, expecting to see Paul in distress. It was John Lennon’s sound, though, a high pitched, agonized mewl coming from the throat, for he dared not open his mouth. He was staring at the trousers, held aloft, and could not stop trembling. Paul was looking up at him in concern, and stroking his arm -- petting him with long, light strokes, all unconsciously -- as he had the previous night. “John,” Paul said, “do you want to leave? Go down to Brian’s room with him and wait?”

Paul’s solicitousness, so unexpected in the midst of these harrowing material revelations, finally brought the tears he'd been battling back all morning, and John shook his head, angry at his lack of control. He wiped his face with his sleeve. “No. If you can stand this, I can,” he whispered. “It’s the last of it, yeah?”

“It is,” Dawson agreed, hastily rolling up the clothes and replacing them in the bag. He stopped in mid-action, suddenly leaning forward, his voice pitched low and quiet. "These trousers tell me a terrible story, my young lad," he said very softly. "Shouldn't you perhaps see a physician? You might be badly injured, yet."

"I'll not," came the terse response, precisely as he had anticipated. "The bleedin's stopped."

Dawson already felt thoroughly familiar with Paul McCartney, and knew better to argue. He would keep his own council because the boy's decision would prove itself wrong or right soon enough. 

“Wait, though” Paul’s hand stayed the cop's hands as they were rolling the trousers. “What about the pockets? Anything there? A comb, money, keys?”

The detective cursed himself for permitting John to distract him from his inventory, even as part of him felt rather impressed with McCartney for the tenacious, detail-oriented mind that probably drove his mates crazy and also saved them from themselves. Unrolling the slacks, he reached gingerly into the stiffened, filthy trousers. His hand moved about too freely. “The pockets are all empty,” he said, that official voice now very abrupt, knowing instantly what it meant.

Paul sank back into his chair, his face a sudden mask of agony and realization. “ _They have my keys_. My keys. To the Asher’s. To my car. To the studio. My whole life.” His eyes shot open wide. _Next time_ , he remembered John saying as he quoted them. Them.

_Next time we’ll let him stay awake for the party…_

The loss of his keys, and the threat that posed was enough to finally propel Paul out of his chair. Despite his considerable pain on rising, he rushed as well as he could to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. When John walked in moments later, without knocking, he saw Paul simply leaning over the vanity, head on his hands, peering at his reflection through his fingers. 

"Don't say anything," he warned John. "Not a word, John. I just want to be in here for a while, okay?"

John handed him another cigarette and lighted it, and crouched down beside Macca, just watching, and smoking alongside him. As they puffed in silence, he had a thought that brought a surprising smile to his face, and he nudged Paul, whose eyes had been closed. "Baby," he whispered.

"What?"

"D'you remember when we'd hide in the bathrooms, the four of us? They'd book us these beautiful big suites and we'd just lock ourselves in the bathrooms and talk and smoke, because it felt like the safest place to be? Because nobody else could ever really understand us, but us?"

"'Alone, together', we called it," Paul nodded as he groaned and shifted his weight. "I said it was an oxymoron, and George said we should run away and form a new band and call it 'The Oxymorons'." The smallest of smiles was playing on his lips.

"Aye, and then Ritchie said,'" John couldn't hold back a chuckle, "he said 'I ain't bein' in a band that makes us sound stupider than we already are!'" 

Paul, his face buried in his arms snorted out a little laugh, his shoulders showing it. The moment passed quickly. Too quickly.

"I miss Richie," he said. "And Geo." He stood upright, arching his back and wincing as he stretched. He'd been still for too long. Looking in the mirror, but at John, he ran both hands through his dark hair and sighed. "I miss us, too. I'm going to miss us."

"There's nothing to miss. We're right here, darling," John said softly, moving closer to Paul, reaching out to him with both hands. His heart sank as Paul backed away, shaking his head. "No, it's no good. I'm spoilt, now. I can't be anything good for you."

"I think that's my decision to make, love, and leave off with that 'spoilt' nonsense, because you are not and could never be. You're everything good for me. Paul, please..."

"John, this nightmare is never going to end. They have my keys. They have... there's gonna be a _next time_ \-- they've all but promised it -- and I'm not gonna be able to live through it. I can't."

"All the keys can be changed, the house, the car, the studio, whatever you had on you. An hour's work for a locksmith and it's done."

"My room key, John, _this_ room...think of it," Paul hissed. "One of them could have slipped in even as we were sleepin' this mornin' just...watching us, and goading."

"No one slipped in last night, sweetheart, you're ..."

"Don't tell me I'm being ridiculous, John." Paul headed him off with a furious glare. "You...you don't know...you don't know. And I am never going to tell you."

Paul was pressed against the bathroom door, looking trapped, and John hated to see him that way -- his arms wrapped around himself, looking the prisoner of his own fears he could so easily become. Might already be becoming.

He put his hands up in a sign of acquiescence. "You're right, sweetheart, you're _not_ being ridiculous, and I _don't_ know, Paul. And I don't want you to tell me anything unless you want to, so maybe I'll never know much." He laid a hand on one of Macca's arms and could feel him trembling. "But I can tell you what I do know, right now," he continued, raising Paul's face to his own, wishing Paul would give him his eyes, make eye contact with him. "I know I love you so much it's like you live in my marrow. I know that will never change. And I know that ...you let me kiss your cheek today, and once you squeezed my hand, and both of those things gave me hope. And I know that you _know_ I love you, even if I've failed you so badly, so many times. IT's why you keep forgiving me."

He one of took Paul's hands, and then the other, helping his closed off, terrified lover to open up to him. "And I know you _need_ me, at least a little, because you reached out to me, before, when you were scared. And I know you love me, Paul, because you stroked my arm, when I was sad. These are the things that I know, love. In this whole mad, evil, fucked up world, I know these things for certain." 

Paul was still avoiding John's eyes, not giving John what he so desperately sought. But he permitted John to rest his forehead against his own. "And I know, too, that if you didn't want me here with you right now, you'd have already tossed me out on me arse, because you're still and forever the toughest bastard I've ever met."

He felt the shake of a head, a shrug. Paul was disagreeing. "I don't feel tough," he whispered in a voice full of self-doubt, a new and ugly tone John wished he had not heard. "And of course I need you, Johnny. Of course I do. You're..." his voice trailed off. He had no business offering love words to a man he might never be able to love again. To raise hopes when there was none to see. All he could do was keep his forehead pressed to John's, and breath.

"Paul, let me kiss you," Lennon sighed against his face, "like before, please let me, Paul. Let me show you."

Another shake of the head. A despised image rushing once again to the fore, as it secretly had all day -- a cock being shoved into his mouth, Paul somehow watching himself, as from a distance, gagging as it was pushed straight into his throat. The bite. The smack. Someone holding his head in place. Laughter. Gagging, choking, barely able to breathe as hips plowed roughly against his face. He squeezed John's hands until they were white and bloodless, but was resolute. "No..."

"Macca, my love, just once... I need to show you." 

"You can't. You can't." Paul's voice broke and John knew he was crying, now, his whole body trembling. "Never," came the tormented whisper. "I can't. I...we'll never be able to be like that again."

"Oh, _Paul_ ," John's heart was breaking for him. "We will, baby..."

"No..." 

There was nothing John could do but kiss Paul's hair, bring his hands up his partner's tense arms, to his shoulders, and then back down. "Shh, alright, my love. Don't baby, please don't cry. There's no pressure." He kissed Paul's forehead brushing his dark locks aside. "I won't ask to kiss you, unless you want me to. Baby? Paul," he asked in his gentlest voice, "but I have to be near you, love, and I need you to be near me. Can I...can I give you a hug, then? _Please_?"

At the slight, hesitant nod of invitation, John brought Paul into a full bodied, arms-loaded embrace, closing his eyes in thanksgiving when he felt Paul enfold him in return, felt him rest his head in his neck and hold on to him, as if for dear life. 

They stayed that way for long moments. Each time it seemed natural to pull away they would only grasp one another once more, reluctant to let go The warmth of their respective holds so much surer than the strange new realities before them. They took turns shuddering through deep, breaths, until Paul's tears began to wane, and John himself could feel more composed. Grounded. Because Paul would always be his surest grounding.

It might have been going on for some moments, but they both seemed to hear the faint knocking at the same time, and they finally released each other with huge, gulping sighs. Macca turned on a faucet, splashing cool water on his face as John opened the door. 

"Come, lads," John Dawson ordered, tossing his head toward the corridor. "We're leaving this room." 


	9. Helter Skelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigator John Dawson finally spells out all of the ways Paul McCartney's ordeal is far from over and in fact may yet expand in awful and uncontrollable ways. For Paul it is an absolute helter skelter of a couple of hours, with his moods fluctuating, his self-control rising and falling. When he gets to the bottom he goes back to the top of the slide, only to slip to the bottom once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the end of this, Paul is light-headed and close to passing out. So is Brian. So is John.  
> Hell, so was I, as I wrote it.  
> I thought I'd be bringing us to a happier place by next chapter. Now I realize we're at least three chapters away from anything remotely happy. Thank you very much for sticking with this hard slog of a story. I really, really am so appreciative of this readership!

“What, why? Why are we doing this,” Paul was asking, even as he permitted a completely unquestioning John to lead him by the hand across the hall and down two doors, to a new room where Brian was already putting their belongings on the dresser. “What’s goin’ on?”  
  
“Why are we here, now,” the confused Macca continued to asked, looking from Dawson to Eppy and back. His eyes grew wide as he began to survey his surroundings, and his tone rose in panic. “This isn’t…it… this isn’t the room, is it? I can’t stay here.”

“No, lad, be easy, now,” Dawson said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “It simply occurred to me, after realizing that your room key was likely with them, that it might be best to make your whereabouts less obvious, not because I believe you to be in danger at this point, but simply for your own comfort. I called down to the concierge while you and Mr. Lennon were by yourselves and asked him to bring up a key to any room on this floor that had been unoccupied last night.” Dawson smiled at him. “And I had him bring up another bottle while he was at it.”

“Oh…” Paul replied, still looking about, dumbly. “Thank you. Thoughtful of you.”

“I’m calling down for some fresh food,” Brian said. “You still need to eat, Paul. And you, John,” he added as he passed Paul’s notebook back into the lad’s hands, along with his pen. “Some nourishment will be good for all of us, I think.”

“But…but then they’ll know we’re here,” Macca objected.

“I’ll answer the door, sir,” Dawson offered. “You’re very safe right now, Mr. McCartney, be sure, and Mr. Epstein is quite right. You really do need to eat something.”

“You really do, love,” John piped up. “Need to keep up your strength.” Paul, he knew, was one of those (to John) freakish people who never ate when anxious and then collapsed at the worst possible moment.

The younger man suddenly plopped down on the corner of a bed, wincing at the surge of pain his careless movement caused. “Safe,” he sighed. “I’m not even sure what that means, anymore.” Behind him he could hear Brian ordering bangers and mash, his favorite meal, and his stomach recoiled at the thought.

Dawson sat directly across from him on the other bed, leaning forward, hands braced before him, and waited until McCartney had settled down enough to meet his eyes. “What about the other rooms,” Paul wondered at him. “Shouldn’t you be looking at the other rooms, and you know…tryin’ to find evidence, something to tell who…who…” He couldn’t speak the words. "Who hurt me."

Dawson couldn’t help but smile at him with genuine warmth. “This is not the first time this morning that I’ve thought you would have been a fine copper, son.”

“Believe me, I’m usually oblivious,” Paul mumbled, in no mood to accept praise.

“Not true, love,” John said, sitting himself beside his mate, their shoulders just touching. “Remember how we got into a melee up North and you had the presence of mind to retrieve your amp?”

“You hollered at me for that,” Paul objected.

“Well, I didn’t say it was smart of you. Only, you know…that you’ve always been mindful.”

“Obviously, I haven’t been mindful enough.” There was a rueful self-condemnation, and a bitter tone, underneath his words, and the room fell silent at it, until Dawson picked up the thread.

“As to the rooms, housekeeping has already been instructed to look out for any room that seemed unusually disturbed, or that might have clothing or strange room keys left behind, and that if they happen across such a room they’re to leave it untouched until they are told otherwise.”

Paul nodded in approval, as though he were in charge of things.

“Having said that,” Dawson continued, “the time has come for us to talk plainly, now,” he began.

“ _The time as come, the Walrus said to talk of many things…_ ” John interrupted automatically as his Alice-in-Wonderland radar was tripped. He felt all eyes resting on him, not sure how to respond, and ducked his head. “Sorry…it’s been programmed into me, you know. Sorry, Paul.”

Macca shook his head. “Johnny,” he sighed, his tone fitting in somewhere in between exasperation and affection. Still, he took John’s hand and the tension lifted.

All three men turned their attention back to Dawson, who successfully managed to hide the pleasure he was taking in observing the couple before him. _They’ll be fine_ , _eventually,_ he thought to himself with only a rueful twinge at a rising memory. _With a lot of time and a lot of patience. And not a little pain, for the rest of their lives…_

Clearing his throat, the big man began again. “Where I am able, on some points, I hope to help put your mind at ease, Mr. McCartney. There are some things that you must be mildly concerned about, such as simply being aware of where you are and who is around you, but there are, unfortunately a few things I believe even you, in that fast-running brain of yours, have not yet thought about and which I believe you must be treat with real concern.”

“Let’s have it, then,” John invited.

Dawson shifted with a sigh. “Before I begin, there is something I need to say as clearly as I can, and to all of you, because it is important for all of you to hear and remember.” Once again, he forced eye contact with Paul, who was beginning to accept it more easily. “Understand me, Mr. McCartney. You must not blame yourself for any of this _._ Now, I know that sounds like weak sauce,” he added, anticipating Paul’s objection before he could make it. “It sounds like some platitude _people say_ , but I assure you this is no platitude. It is the whole and plain truth of it. Young man,' he continued with intensity, "absolutely nothing you did or didn’t do, or could have done or neglected to do, caused any of this to happen. There is nothing you could have done, sir, that could ever justify the reprehensible actions of these men, not the drugging of your drink. Not the imprisoning of you against your will. Certainly not the assault on your person. There is literally nothing for which you can blame yourself as to yesterday, or last night. Do you understand me, sir?”

Throughout his speech, Dawson had watched McCartney begin to curl in on himself, first pulling away his eyes from Dawson’s own, then hunching forward over his own lap, both arms going about his shoulders as though to hold himself together. Having made a closed circuit of himself, Paul was silently shaking his head ‘no’ and seemed almost dissociative, as though he was in the process of removing himself from everyone, any way he could.

Dawson lowered his head, aligning it to Paul’s. “Indeed, son, you must hear me, and believe these words. Every rape victim I have ever known has tried to explain the inexplainable by blaming themselves, by looking for some _reason_ that can make it all make sense to them. They think if they can find it -- find _reason_ within the action -- then they can solve the shattering that has been made of their lives, and put themselves back together again.”

He reached one large hand out to Paul, touching one of his knees very lightly, with just his fingertips, and his face was strained and impassioned as he spoke. “But you must not give in to that instinct, my boy, because rape is _not_ reasonable. It is the very antithesis of reason. There are _no_ excuses, _no_ causes, _no_ blame-worthy justifications for it, because it is an evil act, vile and rooted purely in evil. That such evil exists, that you have been touched by it, particularly in so heinous and cowardly a manner -- because believe me, son, it’s cowards who work in packs like this – is a grievous thing.”

Dawson – the whole gathering -- watched as a single great tear fall from McCartney’s eyes, to the carpeted floor. They could hear it land. And then a second. Paul was absolutely still.

“You are right to weep,” he whispered. “In fact, you must weep, must permit all of what you feel to be expressed, because that is how you will eventually emerge from this unjust horror and begin to carry on with your life.” Dawson watched the lad before him shake his head, so resolutely certain that what the older man was saying must be wrong, and he felt his own years of training break down. This young man before him, so beautifully formed, mannerly, and gifted, was unwittingly breaking his old copper’s heart, reaching into an ache he’d carried for decades. “ _Yes_ ,” he hissed into Paul’s ear with insistence. “You _will_ survive this, lad. You _will_ carry on. And that is where you will find your victory.”

He drew back, reaching into a pocket for his handkerchief and wiping at his own eyes and nose, noting that Lennon and Epstein both seemed to be quietly falling apart, wiping and sniffling, as well. At the discreet knock at the door he rose, slump-shouldered, like a weary grizzly bear, and went to it.

John took the opportunity to lay his full hand on his partner’s back, rubbing big soothing circles from his shoulder to his hips, letting his fingertips massage lightly where he knew Paul, still curled in on himself and immobile, was hurting. For once in his life, John could think of nothing to say. He simply stared straight ahead, and moved his hand, round and round.

After a moment, having spoken in low tones out in the corridor, Dawson returned with a cart of coffee, tea, a half dozen bottles of Coca Cola and various sandwiches, plus one covered hot dish – the bangers and mash. Brian immediately mixed a scotch and coke for John, and handed it to him with half a sandwich, all of which Lennon put aside. He was starving and he wanted the drink badly, but he wouldn’t eat, couldn’t eat, at the moment. Not with Paul like this.

Dawson, a man who knew who he was and what he needed, quickly consumed the other half of the sandwich and gulped down a fast dose of strong black coffee before resuming his seat across from Paul. He sat observing the lad for a moment and then, shaking his head, he gave in to his own instincts, his own surprising need to console him. Taking Macca’s head between both hands, he lifted it, watching as the younger man squeezed his eyes shut in a grimace and attempted to pull away. With his thumbs, the detective brushed away his tears and for a moment John, watching closely, wondered if Dawson was, weirdly, going to kiss Paul.

He didn’t. But the tenderness with which he was engaging Paul almost felt like he had, to the others. “Weep, you, Mr. McCartney,” he said, “you’ve every right to. But then remember what I have said, do you. Because I have never spoken truer words, son, not even in my prayers.”

Brian Epstein, one arm across his chest, the other pressing his hand to his mouth shot John a helpless look, as though he was only just understanding the hard recovery that was before them all.

John, meanwhile, was distracted by Paul, who was beginning to sit up. The young man raised his hands to Dawson’s and slowly removed them. “Is this the antidote,” he said, sniffling and seeking out his own handkerchief from his jacket pocket. “Some old men touch me bad, so another old man touches me good?” His tone became purposely clipped as he looked at Dawson with a curious expression, one eyebrow raised. “Some old copper trick, is that?”

Dawson nodded his head, appreciating the younger man’s clever manner in redirecting the moment, and the room’s attention, away from himself _and_ – he thought thankfully – _away from me, and my own lapse_.

“You’ve seen through me, then” he agreed, trying on a gruffer tone. “And now that I’ve said my piece,” _What I have wanted to say since you first put blame upon yourself, my poor, wounded boy_ , he thought, “We’ll move on. The loss of your keys should of course concern you, but this can easily be remedied-”

“It’s just _Jane_ ,” Paul interrupted, still sniffling but tugging a cigarette pack from his pocket. “And the Ashers, and all the others. I can’t have them bothered, or, or _endangered_ by these…men. I can’t have the studio personnel put at any kind of risk, and I can’t have Jane…God, what might they do to her, these sorts, if they could get to her? Would they use her to hurt me?”

“You’re very right in your thinking. Perhaps Mr. Epstein could make a few calls right now, alerting the studio and the Asher family to change their locks as soon as possible,” Dawson said.

“How do you explain that,” John worried. “Without havin’ to go into the whole bleedin’ thing?”

“I’ll simply tell everyone that Paul’s managed to lose his keys and that they should have their locks changed immediately.”

“Sure, that’s convincing,” John sneered. “Every one of them will say ‘that’s not like Paul, how did he lose them?’”

“And then I’ll say I don’t know and that they can ask him when they see him, that I’m just the messenger boy, and that this is what he wants them to do,” Brian chided. “Don’t make thing harder than they need to be, John.”

“Well said,” Dawson agreed, “And the sooner done the better, sir, if you will.”

“Yes, at once,” Brian agreed, starting for the door.

“Wait, where you going, Brian?” Paul stopped him. The back and forth between the others had given him time to comport himself and now he felt ready to be assertive once more.

“I thought I’d call from my room, less distracting,” Brian explained.

“Nay, don’t you,” Paul frowned at him. “I thought the whole purpose of comin’ into this room was to keep anyone from knowin’ where we are? You can’t be slippin’ in and out, then.”

Brian’s face turned mutinous. “What, I’m to be trapped in here, too? I don’t think my whereabouts are of interest to anyone-”

“But he's quite right, sir,” Dawson said in a decisive voice that would brook no argument. “You’re _known_. At least for now, do your calling from here.”

With an annoyed sigh Brian acquiesced, grabbing the phone from a desk and moving to a far corner.

“I saw what you did, there,” John said to Paul with a smile. “You want to be sure you can hear what he says, make sure he doesn’t fall off script, then.”

Paul nodded his head in silent admission. John leaned forward, whispering, “I even love that controlling bastard part of you, you know.”

“ _John,_ ” Paul couldn’t help but shake his head once again, in affectionate resignation. “You actually _don’t_. Is that your drink, there?”

Lennon hastily handed his untouched scotch and coke to his partner, who gulped half of it down in one go and then looked to Dawson. “What else, then? If the keys are only partly worrisome, what else should we be knowin’ Mr. Dawson?”

“Well, a few things you need to consider. And, let me preface this by saying I still believe you should be examined by a physician--”

“I thank you for the suggestion, but that’s off the table,” Paul cut him off, leaving no room for discussion on that head. Dawson gave a low _hmph_ , disliking the answer, before continuing.

“You should consider traveling with a bit of professional security. As near as I can tell you lads walk about London fairly freely, with just friends nearby to help out if needed.”

“Aye, we’re not MP’s you know,” John said, “or members of the damned royal family. We have a care getting in and out of places, but we’ve never hired help for it.”

“I suggest you do so, now, at least until we have a handle on why Mr. McCartney was targeted, and whether the rest of you or your families might be.”

“Our families,” John paled, immediately thinking of Cynthia and his son, Julian. “Why would anyone bother them? This is England, not the substrata of Chicago, or you know, Sicily. We’ve accrued a bit of goodwill here, I think.”

“Mr. Lennon, not to put too fine a point on it, but _your partner_ has just undergone something I hope none of the rest of you will ever experience, and Mr. McCartney was not off the mark when he asked if these men might go after Miss Asher to bring further hurt to him.”

 _Your partner…_ John rightly read the subtext beneath the words as _your lover_ and clammed up. So battered did he feel by the expediency of Dawson’s correction that he raised both of his hands up in surrender. “Peace, peace, Dawson, I…you’re right. I just…” He looked helplessly at Paul. “We’ve only ever needed a bunch of cops wherever we’ve played, while touring, and we’ve gotten by so well on our own, til now...”

Paul patted his hand with surprising understanding. “Everything is going to change, John. It’s alright for you to not like it. I don’t like it, either. I confess,” he said to Dawson, “I am feeling…fearful…afraid, even of leaving this room. What if they’re still here? I can’t bear the thought of walking through that lobby and knowin' that one of them might be watching me, laughin’ at the way I’m hobblin’ about, or even…” He swallowed down the rest of John’s drink, unaware that he was dropping his g’s in a way he hadn’t in years. “That they might be seein’ me and thinkin’ back on…everythin’ ... last night. Might enjoy picturin’ it again – wankin’ off on the memory of it,” he actually shivered in disgust at the thought.

“Even if I can’t remember much, what I do recall is bad enough. Thinking that someone could be out there, relivin’ it and with pleasure every time they see me. I can’t do it, I can’t stand it. It’s like I’ll be feelin’ stripped of my dignity, bein'... _that_...for the rest of my life.”

Feeling John lace his fingers and squeeze his hands, he turned to his partner. “I’m serious, John. I’m not sure I can ever go back on with the band after this. Can’t bear it, can’t bear the thought of it, with them out there, laughin’, and rememberin’ and knowin’ and maybe even wantin’ to do it to me again, or to one of _you_ lads, because now maybe it’s become a game to them – imagine it! If they decide havin’ bagged one of us improper MBE’s, they come after us all!”

He removed his hand from John's and began tearing at his middle finger, his teeth digging at a cuticle. “I can’t, you know,” he repeated to John. “I can’t have it. Can’t be thinkin’ of it, worryin’ on it, for all our sakes, forever.”

“Paul, you are not possibly thinking of quitting us, you can’t mean that,” John was trying to sound less panicked than he felt. If Paul was saying this out loud, Lennon knew, it meant he must already have been ruminating on it, perhaps all day day.

“I am, though,” Paul admitted softly. “Told you before, I’m no good to you anymore. I’m ruined, John. Have nothin’ to offer you, and nothin’ for the lads. Nothin’ for Jane, even. I might as well go back to Liverpool and…just be nothin’.”

John stood and began to pace, running his hands through his hair, unable to process this new notion of wholly and completely losing Paul. Not just Paul, his dear one, Paul his lover, but Paul his partner, Paul, his muse, Paul, his best mate. Paul, the very heart of the band he couldn’t possibly continue to lead without. He wandered over to where Eppy was still quietly speaking on the phone, and took the corner, his back to the room, his forehead pressed to the wall.

Paul looked at Dawson with a helpless expression. “He doesn’t understand…”

“On the contrary, lad,” came the gentle reply. “I think he has suddenly understood all too much, all too well.”

“I’m not wrong, am I, to feel this way,” the younger man worried. “To think this way?”

“I’m quite certain that whatever your feelings are in this moment, they are not wrong – the exception being any feeling you have that any of this is your own doing. But, son, you’re still in the middle of processing a trauma even you do not fully understand." He poured a cup of tea out for Paul, who took it politely but did not sip. "Your worries are natural, and I see you’re already putting together worst-case scenarios, which I suspect you already do as a matter of course. But you must also remember that worst-case scenarios are called that precisely because they are _“worst-case”_ , and as a copper, I can tell you the worst cases are realized much less in reality than in our imaginings. You’re not wrong to think as you do, but perhaps... leave aside some of those thoughts – the ones touching on your livelihood, for instance, for another day.”

“I shouldn’t have said it to him, you mean,” Paul was still gnawing at his finger.

“Actually, it might have been good for him to hear. It’s clear to me, Mr. McCartney, that your partner is committed to you, but he doesn’t strike me as a man who projects much into the future.”

Paul looked up from under his heavy lids, and removed his finger from his mouth. “He’s more than just my partner, you know,” he confessed, as though sharing the deepest secret of his heart.

Dawson met his eyes. “I know, son,” he said, enormously touched to be entrusted with such an admission. “And he loves you, too. You should let yourself lean on him a bit more, perhaps, than you do.”

He decided to let that sink in on McCartney a bit, and headed back to the food cart, selecting another sandwich a full one, and nodding toward the covered dish. “You should eat something hot.”

“Later,” Paul answered, not caring, “when we’re done taking up your time.”

“No worries on that, sir,” Dawson rumbled before raising his voice a bit. “I do hope Mr. Lennon and Mr. Epstein can rejoin us, though, as there is still something quite important to discuss.”

Looking like an inattentive schoolboy who has been called out, John ambled back over to the bed, stopping to grab a sandwich and a napkin on the way. Eppy was finishing up the last of his calls and managed to join them soon after.

“So, they’re going to change the locks, yeah?” Paul asked with some anxiety.

“The studio said it would be done within the hour, no question,” Brian informed him suddenly deciding that he, too, needed a bite and sticking near the cart. “The Ashers were a little more problematic, rather casual about when they’d attend to it. It was a bit of a job convincing them of the urgency of the matter.”

“What did you tell them, then,” Paul had gone very still. “You didn’t-”

“Of course I did not,” Brian said, looking insulted. “As John said last night, that’s yours alone to tell. I simply informed Margaret that you’d lost your keys in a very bad neighborhood and that you were insisting they protect themselves immediately.”

Paul made a face. “Margaret. I’m surprised she didn’t ask you if I lost them while off whoring in a brothel, somewhere.”

John couldn’t hold back a snicker, and even Brian permitted himself a tight-lipped smile before repeating his assurances. “I did tell her I thought your concerns were justified and after a bit of back-and-forth she did finally agree to call a locksmith. Today.”

That brought a relieved sigh from Paul, which seemed a sign to Dawson that he could resume the floor. To that end he stood up, looming immensely before them.

“If I may, sirs, I want to repeat my concerns about our personal security. At least for the foreseeable future, until we have answers, it is the wisest course. And you will have to tell this to your bandmates, that they need to step up their security and be more aware of where they are, and who is around them, than they are used to.”

“We’re going to have to tell them, love,” John whispered.

Paul shook his head ‘no’. “I know,” he answered. “But I don’t want to think about that right now. I can’t. I keep thinking of what Geo’s gonna say, or how Ritchie’s gonna look at me with those eyes, and I can’t.”

“And about _us_ , too, you know, it’s time to tell them.”

“Mr. Lennon, _if you please_ , sir…” Dawson sounded purely weary of trying to get to his main point.

“Sorry,” John drew away from Paul, who was back to biting his finger and looking anxious.

“There is one urgent concern I have that I believe you must face.” He turned to Paul, addressing him directly. “Mr. McCartney, I am very, very sorry to have to be more direct in my language than is perhaps comfortable for you, but it is necessary for me to plain and clear.”

Dawson’s tone and expression were enough to cue John into readiness. He put an arm around Paul’s waist, giving him a light squeeze.

“The thing you must understand…” Dawson looked as though he really did not want to say what he must. “The thing is, whether your assault was planned or spontaneous, it took place during a social gathering, which means there is a very good possibility that there were cameras present--”

“Oh, _Christ_.”

The cry came from Brian Epstein and it was immediate. Before Paul or John had fully taken in Dawson’s words, Brian’s protective and managerial instincts were engaged. His face reflected pure horror.

“Yes,” Dawson said quietly. “Mr. McCartney, it is very often the case in rapes involving more than one attacker, that photographs will be taken. The greater the number involved in the rape, the greater chance that there will be at least one or two cameras involved. In this case, especially if your attackers were involved in a social engagement such as last night’s, I’m afraid it is most likely there were cameras present and in use during your rape.”

John felt Paul swaying in his arm, his partner rubbing his forehead, furiously, as though to erase the idea from his head. “No,” he heard him whisper.

“I am afraid ‘yes’ is the more likely answer,” Dawson said, observing his Macca sadly – somehow the lad had become _his_ Macca, too. “And the thing is, there are all sorts of ways that material will leak out. Some members may share the photographs outside their group. Some may sell them through the underground pornography markets.”

With those words, the detective noted that Paul looked close to passing out, and that Lennon – whom he’d just advised the lad to lean on more surely – was too shocked, too appalled to realize it. He made his way to them, and touched McCartney’s head. “Come, now, son, head down, between your legs. Take a good deep breath.”

That snapped John out of his stricken state; he too bent toward Paul, crooning softly at him and once again rubbing his back. “Breathe, baby, don’t pass out on me…I’ve got you, love,” he murmured, despite his own head spinning at the notion. _Cameras._


	10. Last Night Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **:::::TRIGGER WARNING:::::  
> **  
>  Paul has a terrible flashback to the night before.  
> And a voice from far in his past rises.  
> And it's nobody's fault but Macca hurts John, strikes at the very heart of John's lifelong torment.  
> This chapter has a bit of hope, and a lot of hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **::::TRIGGER WARNING::::** The flashback depicts images recalled during Paul's rape. If you suspect you cannot read it, please note the asterisks that precede the images **(*********)** and also close it so you can commence reading. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your encouraging and generous comments. They're keeping me going!

Paul McCartney was vomiting. Right into John Lennon’s hand.

The bile had risen so suddenly, so unexpectedly, from his nearly empty stomach that Paul hadn’t even felt it coming. And now he was heaving uncontrollably, and John, completely flustered and trying not to retch, himself, could not think beyond catching the malodorous mixture of scotch, Coca-Cola and stomach acids before they hit the carpet, which he knew would have upset Paul under normal circumstances.

It didn’t really make sense, and of course the carpeting was getting spattered, anyway, but that’s all John’s brain was capable of thinking at the moment, as though he’d been trained through all of their travels: _Paul will be embarrassed if the carpet is ruined!_

In seconds, Dawson had put a paper bin in place, and Brian had immediately rushed into the bathroom returning with wet flannels and dry towels.

The sound Paul was making between heaves was low and tortured -- almost feral-sounding – and the hard tugs to his stomach continued long after there was anything left to bring up.

_Cameras._

Yes. Cameras.

As soon as Dawson had said the words, he had known it was true. All day Paul had been remembering flashes of light. Fast, bright. He’d dismissed them as some sort of symptom – of anxiety or trauma, or a crazy spike in blood pressure. But now he knew what he’d been seeing.

_Cameras._

There were going to be pictures. Perhaps at this very moment, someone was in a dark room, developing photographs that would display images of himself being…held down…

Smacked.

Bitten.

Face-fucked, head held in place.

_Raped. His ass held open, exposed._

_Bleeding._

God only knew what else.

 _Negatives_ , he thought, and his stomach roiled, again. There would be negatives, able to make a hundred sets of photos. A thousand.

And they would be bought and sold.

The manhandling of his body, commodified like a cheap 45 rpm record.

The utter negation of his humanity, of his God-given dignity, passed off as wanking material or as something sensational and humiliating. Someone’s passing entertainment.

 _It’s the end of me_ , he thought, his sense of dread completely overwhelming his senses. _All over. It’s done for me, for the band…_

His head was spinning. Weirdly, he could hear Bob Dylan’s voice whirling through his brain, but sounding slow and distorted, blurry and under water…

 _The sky too is folding under you_ _  
And it's all over now, Baby Blue_

Paul dropped the wastebasket, not remotely worried about the carpeting, as the world went black.

*************

_Hands, grabbing at him. His legs being wrenched apart. Roughly. Wide apart._

_Someone tugging at his cock, twisting at his sac, cruelly._

_Stopitstopitstopit._

_I can make that lovely cock happy..._

_Look at him, shooting right up, there, hard as a rock. He’s loving it, though, he loves it._

_That’s youth for you, Cholly. Springs right up._

_Stopitstopitmakeitstopgodmakeitstop_

_A flash of light. Another. Someone grabbing his chin. Calloused, stinking fingers shaking his face back and forth._

_Open your eyes, darling, give us a big smile, then, show us the fun._

_NononostopitIdon’twantthis_

_Two fingers shoved roughly up inside him, dry. The pain is searing and his eyes fly open, his mouth, too, flies open._

_A flash of light._

_Laughter_

_He enjoyed that, didn’t you Paulie? Go for three, Cholly._

_Another rough thrust. Burning pain. Paul’s eyes are open wide, and he cries out. Cries out loud, high pitched. Screaming._

_Flash._

_A smack. Something shoved into his mouth. White, thick._

_His drawers. His own drawers. In his mouth._

_He’s suffocating. He can see himself, as if from a distance, his eyes rolling about as he seeks out something, anything on which to focus, something to look at that is not this._

_He really is a beauty, though, isn’t he? I can see why my daughter likes him._

_One finger, tracing down his face. A tongue licking its way up his cheek while a hand twists his nipple painfully._

_Teeth, biting._

_And just imagine that pretty face full of my cock. Or praps even two dicks, eh?_

_Yes, two is smarter, since he bites._

_More laughter. Loud, braying, sounds._

_Hey, not funny, now… little bastard actually hurt me._

_He hears zippers, flies being let down, clothes being tossed about._

_He’s looking. Looking for anything. Where can he put his eyes…_

_Bit of a goat-boy isn’t he? Furry as a faun’s, those legs._

_Aye, but then that lovely round ass of his…smooth as a babe’s._

_We’ll give it a go, no worries on that front_

_You mean that back. Prefer him kneeling over the bench for my own turn._

_More laughter. A chorus of ayes, and yeahs. Filthy laughter._

_The doorframe. Focus on the frame of the doorway. Help will have to come from there, right? Through the door? Helpmehelpmehelpmepleasehelpme._

_Paul stares at the doorway, tries to keep his attention there, as rough fingers are digging away inside him, carelessly, and there is laughter as he moans._

_Unthinkable pain._

_The doorframe. He hears a distant voice, calling from so far away, the sound of mist and light._

_The drawers taken from his mouth. A hard cock quickly shoved in its place._

_Another flash of light._

_Laughter._

_Look at the doorframe, Jamie…_

_My Jamie, sweet and strong…_

_Jamie…_

*************

“Jamie, wake up.” Whispered into his ear.

“Wake up, my Jamie, sweet. Oh, wake up, my love.”

His mother? Her words from so long ago. _“Come now, my Jamie…”_

No, not Mary. _John_.

John’s voice, calling him back from that terrible place. “ _Jamie, my love…_ ”

Paul felt like he was being pulled up, wrested up powerfully, lifted instantly out of a whirlpool that was still trying to drag him down, keep him in that deep hole of darkness and mocking laughter. And the doorway that never brought rescue. 

John’s faced pressed against his, warm, wet. Whispering his name, his secret name – [the sweetname that John and John alone knew](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611301) – insistently in his ear. “ _Jamie…my sweet._ ”

Paul opened his eyes. Above him loomed Dawson and Brian Epstein, concern showing nakedly on their faces. Beside him lay John. _His_ John. Cheek pressed to his own, one hand lightly cupping his face, beloved auburn hair tickling his forehead. _Tudor red in the bright sun,_ Paul used to tease him.

_But it’s all over now, Baby Blue…_

He reached up, touching his lover’s hand, and Lennon’s eyes flew open. “Oh, Christ, you scared me. Oh, _Paul_.” He imposed a full hug on him, not caring whether it might hurt, both arms squeezing tight as his tears flowed freeling. “I didn’t think you’d ever come ‘round, love.”

Brian Epstein found his way to a chair, blotting his forehead with a towel and loosening his tie. He wasn’t sure he could endure much more. Never had he wished for a day to simply end. He loved Paul, of course he did. He would do anything he could for him, anything to help him. But right now what he really wanted was to be home, in his own house, where things were quiet and beautiful, and with no ghastly suffering before his eyes. He could be free of this, free to just…think of something else.

Even Dawson seemed shaken. He settled himself on the foot of the bed, exhaling as though he’d been holding his breath a great while.

“You gave us quite a fright, my lad,” he said in a gruff voice, the voice a father might use after one of his children had scared the heart right out of him, and didn’t want to show it.

“Aye, Paul, so fuckin’ pale you went,” John agreed. “Was afraid you were dyin’. And then you wouldn’t wake up, _wouldn’t_ come around, just _wouldn’t_ …” He left off, snorting and choking back on his words, realizing that he sounded like he was blaming Paul for what he couldn’t control. “Almost called for an ambulance.”

“No…I’m sorry.” Paul tried to sit himself up while Lennon resolutely clung to him. “I’m sorry I scared you. I…it was scary for me, too.”

“You need to eat something, will you please eat?”

“Oh, Christ, don’t nag me, love, my head is dinnlin’ isn’t it?”

John pulled away looking crushed for a moment, and then his face relaxed. He looked at Dawson. “He called me ‘love’.”

“I heard,” the detective nodded. “Get him some food.”

“Yes, get off me, John, I can’t breathe.”

“Alright,” John rose, wiping his eyes, and then his nose with his sleeve. He leaned down, planting a firm kiss on Paul’s forehead. “You called me love, though, I heard it.”

The look his partner gave him strongly suggested John Lennon was insane, but he chose to ignore it. “I heard you,” he repeated as he made his way to the food cart and began cutting up sausages.

“I’m not eating,” Paul said to Dawson, who had drawn closer. With a shaking hand, Macca lit a ciggie.

“That’s unwise, Mr. McCartney. You clearly need food.”

“I’m not…I don’t want to…I don’t want to digest it.”

The penny dropped for the detective, and his expression was a mixture of sympathy and pragmatic firmness. “You can’t go the rest of your life without shitting, son,” he said quietly, so no one else could hear.

“It will…it’s gonna hurt.”

“Aye, it will. Likely be bloody at first, too, and for a while.”

The younger man blanched and puffed hugely on his smoke. “I don’t want it.”

“Of course you don’t. I’m afraid, however,” he said in a louder voice as John returned to the bed, a plate in hand, and spread a napkin – with surprising daintiness – on Paul’s lap, “that we all of us must insist that you eat something. It would be downright unkind of you, sir, to put us through another episode like the one we’ve just endured, because you’re too weak from hunger.”

“Aye, I’ll force-feed you if I have to,” John added, taking Paul’s cigarette into his own mouth and handing him a wet flannel, instead. “Wipe your tongue and teeth off with that, love. Vomit doesn’t truck with bangers and mash.”

Paul gave him that look again, the one that said Lennon was utterly mad, but did as he was told before trying a forkful of tepid mashed potatoes. As soon as he swallowed he realized how famished he actually was. With relative speed he plowed his way through nearly half the dish before suddenly laying down his fork, thinking that – regardless of Dawson’s advice – less in this case would mean _less_ , later on, not more. He washed it down with nearly an entire bottle of Coke taken in one go, and had to admit he felt stronger for it.

“Better?” John asked.

Paul burped lightly, his stomach churning away. “Aye, thanks, John. Thank you,” he repeated, as though wanting to be sure John heard. He rubbed his face and then looked directly at Dawson.

“You are right, Mr. Dawson. There was a camera. There might have been two.”

 _You plucky lad_ , Dawson thought, wondering at Macca. _Come back from a faint like that and lead off with as ugly a matter as possible._ “You’ve remembered something else, then,” he asked gently. “Is that what put you out?”

Paul looked at him with cautious eyes. “We’ll stick to the camera, yeah? I’m only confirming a camera.”

“Christ Almighty,” Brian groaned as he picked up the conversation. “This is going to be awful.”

“It’s going to mean that whatever else you do or do not wish to happen – whether you wish to see these men arrested and brought to trial or not – there is now an urgent issue before us,” Dawson pronounced. “There are photographic negatives that must be somehow retrieved, before they can be developed and redeveloped and then handed about. Assuming we are not already too late.”

The silence that greeted his words was profound. They all understood his meaning, and the possibility that the circulation of such photos might already be impossible to prevent.

“Can’t we bring Scotland Yard in on this,” John asked. “Can’t they…don’t they have some sort of division to look into something like this?”

“It would be impossible to ask the Yard to somehow prevent photos leaking out of an event you don’t wish to tell them about,” Dawson explained. “Something as delicate as this…and as sensational…even if sworn to secrecy, someone might calculate that one big payday to help a leak might be a better option than 20 years and a pension. I do wonder, though…” He turned to Brian, “Mr. Epstein, you must have had contact with the offices at the Palace in preparation for recent events. These lads are MBE’s now and in real trouble. Seeking assistance from that quarter, as quickly as we may, could be our best option.”

“All of those numbers would be in my office,” Brian said. “If you don’t mind me heading out there, then I may have a few useful contacts.”

“Go, Brian,” John urged immediately. “Be slippy about it.”

“That would be very helpful, sir,” Dawson agreed, turning to Paul. “Are you in agreement, son?”

Paul looked toward Epstein hopefully, his dark eyes two large pleas for deliverance. “Bri-Brian…” he stammered. “Anything you could do,” he held out a hand. “I’d be so grateful.”

“We both would be,” John added.

Eppy took Paul’s proffered hand and could feel the desperation in the lad’s hard squeeze. “Thirty minutes,” he said reassuringly, looking about the room. “I’ll call you all when I have made a contact.”

“Thank you,” Macca said, nearly collapsing against John in gratitude. Brian, in a move completely out of character, especially within his relationship to Paul, leaned over and kissed his head. “Paul, I’d do anything,” he started, before his throat began to tighten. With a shake of Dawson’s hand, Eppy quickly – and gratefully - exited the room.

“Dawson,” John spoke up, watching Paul raise his fingers to his mouth and deciding to let him be about it, “do you think there’s a chance? That we could get out of this mess unscathed?”

The detective, leaning against the door he’d just locked, with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, shook himself from his own thoughts. “Impossible to say,” he answered. “But this is our best possible option. We don’t know who is behind this, whether it relates to the gathering last night or not, but … let us hope for the best.”

“And if it all goes bad, well, that’s it, we’re done, then,” John said, turning to Paul with a grimace. “If we’re screwed, Paulie, then fuck it. We’ll disband. Go off to New Zealand and set up a pub with a mic and just play for ourselves, then. We’ll get out of the fecking business and become new men, and we’ll not have to endure it.”

“That’s not a half bad plan,” Paul nodded, but his face was grim. “The pictures would still be out there, though, and maybe bein’ replicated. It would just be like… I couldn’t live thinkin’ the world can see last night forever.”

“No, nor, I love. It’s not to be endured. I’m confused, though,” John turned to Dawson. “If someone was pushin’ pictures like that, foul pictures where it’s clear someone’s been drugged, someone’s you know…eyes closed, asleep an’ all, who’d buy them? I’ve seen my share of porno, you know. Not proud of it, but we’ve all looked. Never come across anything that seemed, you know…like someone’s being abused as they were out cold.”

Paul shivered, looking down at his lap, saying nothing. Dawson noted it, and _hmmed_ thoughtfully before answering John.

“In fact, Mr. Lennon, there is a very good chance that some measure of the pornography you’ve seen – any of us have seen in our lifetimes – are rapes-in-progress, but not obviously so. Not every drug, you know, knocks someone out. Depending on the drug itself, and the dose… Some drugs just put a person into a kind of twilight, where they are still awake, but unable to do much to help themselves. Or perhaps a man is given a dose that might be enough to knock out a woman, but only has a similarly debilitating twilight effect on him. So, they are not especially asleep. Sometimes they’ll be deliberately hurt in order to get a particular facial expression – to make it look as though they are climaxing, as it were, or close, because pain and pleasure do not always look very different.” Dawson’s gaze was indirect and far-focused, as though he was looking at a memory. “Sometimes their eyes may look glazed over, as though they are in the throes of passion, when in fact, they are simply dosed and unable to get out of the situation they are in.”

He let that terrible reality sink in, and Lennon, who had seemed almost cheeky once McCartney had been restored to him and fed, sobered up considerably -- particularly as he recalled all the time he spent in Hamburg, where pornography was sold outright on the Reeperbahn, as common as chewing gum. “Is that true,” he wondered. “Christ. I don’t like hearin’ that. Or thinkin’ I’d been seein’…”

“I assure you, it is quite true. Rape has a hand in pornography, whether it’s part of what you’re looking at, or because it has played a part in some poor woman or lad takin’ it up for profit, because they believe it’s all their good for.”

The somber atmosphere in the room only grew as a deep sense of shame, and sadness engulfed them all. Paul’s silence was so intense it seemed to loom over all of it, as though it was an entire separate entity of unwanted knowledge.

John felt compelled to reach over and massage his partner’s neck a little. Paul couldn’t help himself. He pulled away with a tiny gasp, looking down, biting down on his lip.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No, I’m sorry,” John looked utterly crushed. “It’s alright, Paul.”

“These memories,” Paul suddenly blurted in a fretful voice toward Dawson. “Are they just gonna keep comin’ at me? Layin’ me out like this? I thought when you were blacked out, all the memories were gone?”

“Again, depends on the drug, and the dosage,” the detective answered plainly, thinking it the best way to deal with McCartney who, he had come to realize, wanted his answers with no dressing. “It seems clear to me that your memories are already resurfacing and that will probably continue. They might seem to come at you hard and fast, especially in the next few weeks, and then become less frequent.”

 _Next time…_ Paul heard running through his head. _Next time, tell him we might let him stay awake…_

He wondered what was worse, being gang raped while drugged, or without the drugs, nothing to even take the edge off. He was horrified, suddenly, to realize that he was thinking the word, _rape_ , permitting it to form in his consciousness, as though it was already becoming a normalized reality for him.

But that was reality, after all. He had been raped. He was a man, and he had been raped. By other men…one of whom had a daughter, apparently.

For the rest of his life, whatever he did, good or bad, musical or charitable or whatever, this would be one of the true things someone could say about James Paul McCartney: that he had been dehumanized and hurt and treated like a mere thing, a nothing. That he had been brutally raped, and by more than one man.

His stomach was beginning to ache at the thought. He forced himself to remain very still for a long moment, and then opened his eyes.

“John,” he said in a resolute voice. “Could you leave Mr. Dawson and me alone for a bit?”

“ _Why_ ,” John asked, “where do you want me to go?”

Paul shrugged apologetically. “Back to the loo for a bit? Smoke a bit?”

“But why,” he repeated, a very real hurt on his face. _“Why don’t you want me with you?”_

Paul’s heart nearly broke to hear the quiver that came with those words – the words at the heart of everything that made John Lennon brilliant and angry and sensitive and tormented, and so endlessly, endlessly needy. He suddenly realized that by asking him to leave, he had struck at John’s core, activated the pain and massive void created within him so long ago.

And he’d done it so thoughtlessly, so selfishly, too. “I’m _sorry_ , John,” Macca said as gently as he could. “I don’t want to hurt you. It’s the last thing I want. I don’t mean to… I don’t want you to go away. I _need_ you near.” He placed a hand on Lennon’s shoulder, pressing in. “I need you to be near me, I do … but I don’t want you to _hear,_ yeah? You understand? Some things I never want you to hear.”

“But…” It wasn’t helping. John’s insecurities were echoing through him, blaring too loudly to permit him to hear or see Paul’s own need, or to understand that his ever-controlling partner was trying to protect John, protect himself, protect their love. “You can tell me anything, Paul _, anything_. Don’t you know that? Don’t you trust me?”

“It’s not about you, or trust or anything like that, love. John, _please_? Give me a few minutes alone with Mr. Dawson?”

“I think, Mr. Lennon,” the detective said softly from his wall, “Mr. McCartney is trying very hard to keep from hurting you very deeply.”

“Well, he’s hurting me good’n hard right now, though, isn’t he?”


	11. Two Lost Boys, But Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say thanks again, everyone, for reading this, and sticking with it. This is a bit of a roller coaster of a chapter. John's demand to "know everything" leaves Paul identifying with the most painful moment of John Lennon's life and realizing he has no good choices. Chocolate helps, but the room in which Paul was raped is found and one piece of evidence left behind triggers an immediate, and terrible, memory for our Paulie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING NEAR THE END. NOTE THE ASTERISKS: *********

“John, Mr. Dawson is right--”

“No, I don’t want to hear it, Paul—”

Paul was rubbing his forehead, the way he did whenever he was under real stress. “I’m only trying—”

They were talking over each other and John was on his feet now, beginning to pace around Dawson and the room while his partner struggled painfully to sit up more fully. “Look, John love, you said yourself you didn’t want to hear anything that I didn’t want to tell you--”

“Well, I’m revising that,” John cut him off with an impatient motion. “I can’t do it, Paul. I can’t be your partner, I can’t be the partner I want to be and go through all of this with you without ever being able to know what it is you’ve actually gone through.”

He finally looked at Paul, who had gone silent. The younger man was sitting up in obvious discomfort, his eyes like two platters serving up all the fear, all the doubt he felt inside about what John could or could not handle, or what telling John everything he wanted to know might cost them both. Namely, their whole relationship -- all that they had been to each other, from the day they had met until this moment. 

Paul didn’t have to say a thing. John saw all of his concerns in the shout of those two expressive dark eyes -- saw the ever-confident Macca looking completely lost and uncertain of himself -- and the flinty edge of his anger fled. He clambered over the bed to kneel beside his love, taking both of Paul’s hands in his. “Baby, I’m not trying to be nosy. I’m not looking for some way to…to somehow punish you by making you tell me everything, or to punish me by having to hear it. And I’m not looking for a way to make this about me, or what I can or can’t live with. I’m just…” He tilted Paul’s head up, forcing eye contact. “I’m just so _terrified_.” His voice broke on the word.

“If you can never tell me all of it, and you just get into this mode, or this habit or whatever, of shutting me out because you think you’re going to protect me, then this thing will be forever between us, creating distances and barriers, until – between my imagination and your suffering in silence…it’s just going to swallow us whole. I can feel it happening already. There’s you, with this giant thing that will always have a piece of you, forever, and then there’s me…and you know how I am. You know I need all of you or I’m a fucking lunatic. Please, Macca. Don’t send me away, because you don’t trust me to stay.”

“Is that what you think,” Paul asked in a quiet voice. “That I’m only thinking of myself, and worryin’ whether you’ll … whether I can trust you not to walk?”

“Baby,” John’s thumbs began stroking the small hairs on the back of Macca’s hands as he matched his weary tone. “I think you really do think you’re trying to protect me. I _do,_ ” he insisted, licking his dry lips. “But I also think the other is part of it, too. The _trust_ thing. And…and,” Lennon tightened his grip on Paul’s hands before they could be pulled away, “and that such doubts can exist in you about this… it’s my fault. My own fault, not yours. But I told you last night, we’re in this together.”

There was a light knock to the door and Dawson quickly answered, slipping into the corridor. After exchanging a few words with someone – another male voice – he stuck his head into the room. “Gentlemen, excuse me. I’ll be back directly,” and he was off. They heard him use his key to lock the door behind him.

“What do you reckon that’s about,” Paul asked.

“We’ll know soon enough,” John answered, grateful that Dawson was gone, if not for the interruption. Shifting over to sit side-by-side, he once again began to massage the sensitive lower part of Paul’s back. “Is this okay?”

Paul’s eyes closed as he arched his back and groaned aloud, nodding. John used the opportunity to bring his head closer, speaking directly into his Macca’s ear. “Christ alive, sweetheart, it was just a little over twelve hours ago I was hysterical thinkin’ I’d never see you again, that I’d lost you and you’d never be found. Ask Brian what I was like. I was out of my mind. And you don’t know the deals I was offering God, the promises I was making if only he’d bring you back to me.”

Paul was listening intently. “Really, John? You prayed?”

“I did. As well as I was able. I was offering unconditional, slavish promises. Anything. _Anything_ to get you home to me. And one of those promises was that whatever happened, I’d never take you for granted again, or let you down when you needed me. I meant it, love. May God punish me over a thousand unending fires if I ever do.” He kissed Paul’s temple. “Do you believe me? Paul?”

He kissed him again. “Babe, do you?”

Paul leaned over, his chest practically touching the bed as he tried to stretch out his back, opening it up to John’s ministrations. He groaned again. “You know what you’re doing to me, John, don’t you?”

“I think I’m rubbing your back and telling you that I love you, any way I can.”

“No,” came the muffled response before Paul sat upright once more. “Johnny,” he spoke softly. “I know that asking you to go away, to leave while I talked to Dawson… I realized after I did it, how it must have made you feel – like you weren’t important, or I didn’t want you with me. I wish I’d not said it as I did, and I’m sorry, truly.” He rested his head upon John’s shoulder, stilling his hand. “No more, thank you. I’m so sore.”

“I’m so sorry,” John whispered, kissing him once more.

“No,” Paul dismissed his pain, shaking his head. “It’s just… in a way, if I never understood how you’d felt before, I do now. I mean, to have to choose between your father and your mother on a street corner. To watch Julia walk away – force you to chase after her when no five year old should ever be made to choose like that…I’ve always hated that your parents did that to you, Johnny. Such an unforgivable way to treat their adorable boy.” He reached up with one hand, cupping John’s face to bring it close. “ _My_ adorable boy, now,” he whispered, “and neither of ‘em ever deserved you.”

“Paul,” John murmured, feeling ashamed of the attention. “Not about me…”

“It is though,” Macca insisted. “Everything about you comes back to _that moment_. Everything you are, for good or bad, for all of your kindness and all of your selfishness, all of your neediness and all of your rage, it all centers right there, in those few seconds of your life. And I can see the effect of it every day, in all of your dealings…and in even how we are together, sometimes. Your da tellin’ you he’ll take you to New Zealand or leave without you. Your mum not fighting for you; willin’ to let you go away from her. And then makin’ you chase her down, not even…not even grabbin’ you and huggin’ you to herself when you called out to her. Christ. It was a concrete moment -- it molded you. And every … and every bit of your life has been built or destroyed on that crap foundation of…trauma and need and broken trust.”

John’s own eyes were closed now, but he let himself be drawn closer, and sighed when he felt Paul’s lips on his cheek.

“And now, I know…well, at least a _little_ , I know how it felt for you to be told to make a choice that can never be the right one, will always mean you lose.”

Raising his head, John looked at Paul in genuine wonder. “How is that? How could I possibly have made you feel that way?”

Paul’s look was a heartbreaker, carrying an expression of deep empathy but tinged with that underlying shade of fear. “John…love…I feel like I’m right there with you on that street corner, now, close enough to you to hold your hand and be just as stranded in the moment as you are. _What decision do I make about this that doesn’t cost me everything?_ Do I hold all of this to myself, and risk you closing yourself off? Burying yourself in a kind of metaphorical New Zealand, where you’re here physically but you’re also so far away it’s like you’re on the other side of the world from me? Which means I’ve lost you? Or do I…” he swallowed back a hard lump in his throat. “Do I tell you what you want, and then the burden of it is heavier than you expected, and you’d wish I’d never shared it…and then the guilt you’d feel for thinkin’ that – because I know you so well, John Lennon, and I know you’d slay yourself in guilt over finding it too hard to bear.” Paul’s voice broke, and tears arose, despite his best efforts to fight them down. “And it all makes you run off and leaves me runnin’ after you, trying… callin’ after you in the same way you’d called after Julia, and never bein’ able to catch up,” he gasped, the first tear falling. “And so, I’ve lost you, anyway. Either way, I’ve lost you.”

“Oh, my love…” John’s arms went around Paul, bringing his head to his chest, where he cradled it. “Never.” He said fiercely, a low moan escaping him. “Never. Baby, never.”

“Can’t bear the thought, John,” Paul sobbed, nearly inconsolable in his admission. “I’ve been tryin’ practically since I woke up, since… since that moment in the bath when I started rememberin’… it’s all that keeps runnin’ in the background in me head, like a tape loop… ‘how do I tell him? How do I keep it to myself? How do I _not_ lose him…you… _Johnny…_ ’”

John bent, pressing his lips to Paul’s head, stroking his hair. “Never,” he repeated. “You can’t lose me, love. Do you hear me?”

Paul’s words were unintelligible, a grief-stricken babble spoken into John’s chest.

“No, you’re stupid if you think that. Baby? Look at me, yeah? Look at Johnny, Paul.” He used his fingers to wipe the tears from Macca’s raised face, even as more came. “Don’t you understand, yet? Listen to me, darling. I _cannot live_ without you. I _cannot_. If I never knew it before, I discovered it for certain last night.” Holding Paul’s face between his hands, his own vision blurred as he felt hot tears rise. “You and I are not going anywhere, unless we go together. I will never leave you. And if that means we stand on a God-forsaken street corner for the rest of our lives, with only painful options before us, and choices that will cost us everything, then that’s where we stand. Together. You hold my grubby hand, and I’ll hold yours, and we stand it. We’ll be two lost boys, but together, while the rest of the feckin’ world runs itself mad, aye?”

Paul couldn’t manage speech. His eyes still running a trail of tears the best he could manage was a hiccoughing series of sniffles and a shuddering sigh, as he nodded.

“How could I ever have brought you into that hellish place with me, knowin’ all I know?” John mused at him, feeling around Macca’s pocket until he found his handkerchief. “I’m so sorry, my love. You’re very right. We’ve no good choices.” He held the cloth to Paul’s nose. “Blow.”

Macca blew, his head clearing as he took another deep shivering breath. “I think you just wanted some company on that corner,” he managed to quiver.

John wiped his own eyes and then enveloped Paul within his embrace, pressing his partner’s head to his chest. “Please believe me, my love, I’m not looking for a way to say ‘this is too hard,’ so I can run away. And I never meant to strand you at my corner of hell and eternal heartache. But I won’t let go of your hand while we’re there together.”

\- - -

When Dawson let himself back into their room, he found Messers Lennon and McCartney sound asleep, Paul sprawled over John’s body, snoring with a robust masculinity all at odds with his soft features. Then he noticed the swollen eyes and noses of both sleeping men, and understood all the mouth breathing. _I hope they sorted themselves out a bit, anyway_.

With a sigh, he poured himself two fingers of scotch and flung himself exhaustedly into a chair. He gave himself over to a good copper’s frown as he thought about what he’d just seen, and what it could mean. After nosing about, making his own observations, he’d called the police, just for the sake of procedure, for a _possible, maybe, what-if,_ prosecution, down the road. The room he’d just left was an official crime scene, now, a place where clearly something violent and bloody had happened, what and to whom the police were as yet unsure. And the hotel registry, which he had thought would be the key to identifying the perpetrators, had come a bust.

Strange, that. Something about the fact kept niggling at Dawson as he reviewed his notes. McCartney’s drawers left behind, absolutely foul with blood and bodily fluids and filth, as though they’d delighted in cleaning themselves with it and leaving it behind as a souvenir. Might be useful for identifying blood types, but that would be all. The tuxedo jacket taken, but the tie left. No shoes. He’d noted it because he couldn’t remember whether the same men who had neglected to properly zip a man’s pants might be careful enough to remember to place shoes on the feet of their out-cold victim. 

And then the condition of the room – so careless. Chairs strewn about, upholstery encrusted with blood in evidence. No keys, so a good thing those calls had been made earlier. No money, no wallet, an expensive-looking carved comb that made Dawson wince when he saw it; he hoped it had played no part in that lad’s difficulty walking. Hoped further that he might yet talk young McCartney into a doctor’s visit.

He closed his eyes and drank deeply, envisioning a lean, pale body, long-legged and delicate, and set upon, horribly misused and cast aside, left on a filthy floor to be discovered by-and-by. Lost in the dreadful image, he jumped when the telephone rang, spilling the rest of his drink as he lunged and grabbed the receiver before it could ring twice and awaken the lads.

“Dawson, here,” he announced in a clipped voice, the habit of nearly three decades.

“Mr. Dawson, it’s Epstein, Brian Epstein, I mean.”

“Yes, sir, I hope I am hearing from you with good news?”

He could hear Epstein swallow and assumed that he too was drinking something strong and golden brown. “I am given to believe that this situation with the photos is going to be given a top priority.” Another swallow. “I hope Paul doesn’t get mad, but I had to tell them what the issues were, what the photos might show. I couldn’t ask them to look out for something I couldn’t describe.” Eppy sounded troubled, uneasy with his task and a bit frazzled.

“No, sir, it would make little sense to appeal to the palace for assistance and then not explain why it was needed. I’m sure he will agree with that.”

Epstein gave a name, which Dawson recognized as having distinct connections to MI5. “He called it a grave matter, said the Beatles were too important to the United Kingdom ‘in multiple ways’ to permit such photos ever being disbursed. He said things would be put in motion immediately. How does that sound to you?”

“Very promising,” Dawson said. “Provided we haven’t already missed that most important window…”

“Meaning, provided they haven’t already been developed,” Brian said in a low, discouraged tone.

“Yes, the first window is the most urgent one. But getting the photos out is a second window of opportunity if they are working with known entities. With the proper help we cannot yet breathe easy, as it were, but we can at least breathe rather than holding our collective breaths.”

“How are the boys,” Brian asked. “Are they holding steady?”

“Hmmm,” Dawson mused as he looked them over, noting that John was already stirring. “They look like they’ve both been having a bit of a weep-and-sleep. But they also look a bit cozier together, if that helps.”

“It does. They need each other madly.”

Dawson permitted himself a small smile at that, and murmured a non-committal of a reply. Epstein, he thought, needed them a bit madly, as well.

“Should I return,” the manager asked, sounding for all the world as though he hoped the answer would be ‘no.’

“Perhaps come by this evening, if you would, for a bit of dinner with them,” Dawson suggested. “There are some developments worth discussing.”

“Oh? Good ones, or bad developments?”

“Sir, in this case, it is still impossible to say anything much that is good.”

Dawson could hear liquid being poured. “I guess I’ll make this my last drink for now, then,” Eppy sighed, signing off.

\- - -

“I need to move,” Paul was complaining. “I feel like I need to move my body and walk off all of this pain and stiffness.” He was pacing back and forth, back and forth, between one large window and the door to the room, and John was watching him and marveling at how, even at this terrible time, Paul’s inherent restlessness still drove him, even if he was taking smaller steps than usual. _When he dies_ , he thought _they’ll have to give him an extra day’s waking, just so he can shake his legs out a bit before they close the casket._

Then he shuddered at the very idea of Paul’s death, coming so hard on such a terrifying night. He was glad he’d not spoken the thought aloud.

Macca made his way toward Dawson, small step by small step and then stood before the man, arching his back. “The scotch is fine, you know, but not really what I need just now.”

“I can call down and have a whole bar sent up instanter, if you like.”

“Nah, no booze,” he sounded cranky. “S’not what I need. John,” he piped up, “I know we only decided to stay at the last minute but did you by any chance pack your stash, then?”

John rolled his eyes. “After the tongue-lashing you gave me last time I forgot, I just leave it in the overnight, now, don’t I?”

“Well, that just means it’s old and dried out,” Paul frowned. “What good is it?”

Dawson folded his arms before him, wondering if the two young men were planning to light up in his presence. He hated the smell of kif – they’d called it kif in his own youth, and chewed it, rather than smoked – and would object loudly, if they tried. Especially with police still down the hall.

John was rummaging in his bag. “I’ve got the richer stuff in a plastic bag, but it might be too much for you right now-”

“Nay,” Paul reached around him, bringing out a rectangular box with a satisfied hum. “This is what I want, thank you, love.” Turning to Dawson, he opened it with a flourish. “Care for some chocolate, Mr. Dawson?”

John Dawson raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Chocolates?”

“[Gives ya heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/46130065),” Paul garbled over a dark mouthful of something chewy. He shoved the box under Dawson’s nose until the detective decided that accepting a piece would be the better part of valor.

“Take two, they’re small,” Macca ordered.

He took two.

John selected a piece and then touched it to yet another piece in Paul’s hand, as though clinking glasses. “To Mimi?”

“Mimi, as ever.”

“When my mum died,” John explained, “Macca, here, became a great pest to my Auntie, Mimi.”

“A great _friend_ ,” Paul corrected.

“Eventually, but first you [invaded her household and bossed her around](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/45809215) for days, you did.”

McCartney shrugged. “It was good for her.” He looked at Dawson, who was tackling a caramel toffee that seemed to be growing in his mouth the more he chewed. “We had whiskey and words in the wee small hours one mornin’, and she brought out her secret stash of chocolate and made me eat it.”

“ _Made_ you,” Lennon mocked.

“Force fed me,” Paul agreed. “She said chocolate gives you heart, so you have courage to go on.”

Dawson swallowed. “A wise woman.”

“Solid and beastly, more than wise,” John demurred.

“But her own manner of kind,” Paul finished.

“Oh, aye, that.” John picked out another piece while watching Macca lick his own fingertips clean.

“And Mary would have a fit with you and all five fingers in your mouth.”

“Mary?” asked Dawson.

“Me mum…” Paul put down the box and recommenced his pacing.

Thinking the lads suitably decompressed after their emotion-fed nap, Dawson thought it time to get down to business. “Mr. Epstein will be by later, to share supper with you,” he began. “He made contact with appropriate persons at the palace, and I have hopes we may yet get lucky...”

He spent a few minutes bringing them up to date, answering the few questions they had. Paul went quiet, content to pace and pop a chocolate each time he passed by the box, and let John take it all in. He couldn’t handle feeling any _more_ anxious than he already was. He did stop pacing, however, when Dawson asked him about his shoes.

“M’shoes?” He looked down, realizing he’d been padding about in his socks. “I’ve me shoon,” he said, lapsing into his old scouser. “Took ‘em off so’s not to sully the bed, aye?”

He groaned in pain as he reached at his bedside, holding up a comfortable looking black brogue.

“Are those the shoes you wore last night,” Dawson asked.

Paul frowned at the man as though he were mad. “With _formal_ wear? Nay, I wore my dress slippers.”

“And if you could describe them for me?”

“Just, you know, a black slipper loafer, Italian leather, bit of braiding at the top.” He paused a beat, looking about at his few belongings. “They have my shoes, then?”

“Presumably.” The detective turned to John. “Mr. Lennon, you didn’t happen to notice whether Mr. McCartney was wearing shoes when you discovered him last night?”

Paul began pacing once again.

John instantly remembered the image of Paul, unconscious on the bed, Brian sliding his trousers down from his hips. “I…no…there were no shoes.”

“I see.” Dawson flipped a page down from his notebook and watched Macca from the corner of his eye as he cleared his throat. “I believe we have identified the room to which Mr. McCartney was taken. May I ask,” he interrupted himself as though taken by a sudden thought. “Is that why you are on this floor of very ordinary rooms rather than in the penthouse or using one of the deluxe rooms? Because you checked in at the last minute?”

“Didn’t even know we were comin’ until an hour or so before,” John said, rubbing at his head. “Only came to prevent Eppy havin’ a stroke and only decided then that we’d stay over. We’re not fussy, you know. A room’s a room. It’s all we bothered askin’ for.”

Dawson made that humming noise that was beginning to sound to John like the whir of a mechanical bank. You put a penny in, it’s grabbed and stored deeply within, with a gear-grinding noise. _Give this big fella a morsel of something and its deposited firm_ , he thought.

At that moment, the ‘big fella’ was pondering whether a better grade of room might have been McCartney’s salvation, and McCartney was pondering something else.

“So, who was it registered to, the room,” he asked Dawson. “If you’ve found the room, you know who did this, don’t you?”

“Not, exactly.” Dawson answered with a regretful tone.

“Was my stuff there, my keys?”

“And, _no_. Mr. McCartney, before we discuss the room further, can you take a look at this list of names, and tell me if any of them are familiar to you, or if you may have heard one of the names used, last night?”

Paul accepted the list – a printed list of all of the guests in attendance at the previous night’s dinner -- and with a shaking hand perused it carefully. “I don’t think so. There’s a… there’s a couple ‘Charleses’, here, though. I heard someone saying ‘Cholly’…maybe…” He shrugged, letting the paper slip from his hand as his eyes glazed over with memory. “I think he had a daughter. Someone had a daughter.”

After a moment, he began pacing another circuit around the room and heard, “After making my observations, I decided to call in the police.”

“No,” Paul turned quickly, wincing at his own suddenness. “We said no police.”

“Peace, son, they only know what I’ve told them, but if you ever change your mind and decide to prosecute, things will be in place to permit that. Right now, they have a crime scene with no definitive crime and an unknown victim. But at least things will be processed.”

John walked over and put an arm around Paul’s waist, joining his pace. “It’s a good notion, love. Let it lie.”

“So, whose room is it, then,” Macca spat out, needing to feel like something was going his way.

“In fact, it was no one’s room. One of three unoccupied rooms on this floor, and located at the end of the hall, near the stairway. The room was found in disarray by two women who were checked in this afternoon, a young lady and her grandmother. Quite a shock for them, and an embarrassment for the house.”

“Can I see it?” Paul asked.

“No, you cannot,” came the firm answer by both Lennon and Dawson, in tandem.

“That’s a mad idea, Paul, and I won’t let you do it.”

“Also a very _bad_ idea, if you wish to maintain your privacy, son,” added the detective. “Coppers currently all over the room and all about the hotel.”

Paul felt around for his cigarettes, finally taking a pack off of John. “Did you see it?”

“I did. An unhappy scene although not the worst in my experience. Your tie was on the floor, but your tuxedo jacket was nowhere to be found. No keys, no money. No wallet.”

“No, I hadn’t brought my wallet.”

“Can you…if you were carrying a comb, son, can you describe it?”

“Aye, it’s a horn, one. Hand carved, with a short little decorative handle, like. An elephant. Jane bought it for me on holiday in Tunisia last winter. Can I get it back?”

Dawson unpursed his lips. “Evidence, I’m afraid. And the thing is damaged, anyway. Not sure you’d be wanting it.”

“How does a comb carved out of horn get damaged,” John wondered.

“Handle broken off.” The detective was suddenly terse.

*************

“ _Inside me_ ,” Paul whispered immediately, turning to face John, reaching for him as he felt the room tilt. “It broke off inside me…”

“Christ, Paul,” Lennon grabbed his partner against him as he felt Paul’s knees go week and hauled him to a chair. “I’ve got you, love. I’m here.”

Dawson opened a bottle of Coke and urged it onto Paul. “Drink it down, my lad. Stay with us.” Paul gulped it down gratefully. “Is this a memory, son, or a good guess?”

“Memory,” the younger man gasped, arms crossed across his stomach as he bent in half. “I remember. Broke inside me. Hurt so much. So much… Sharp…bloody.”

*************

John was kneeling beside him, putting a basin in place. He reached up, pressing Paul’s shoulder. “I’ve got you, darling,” he repeated as Paul gasped, taking in huge bites of air over and over, until he could gain control over his stomach. “I’m here…”

And now Dawson was kneeling before him, cupping his chin and looking directly into his face. “Mr. McCartney,” he whispered, and with such remarkable understanding. “My dear young man…I believe it is time for you to speak all that you remember.”


	12. "Let it Be Me..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little respite from the angst, as John and Paul are finally "alone, together" simply lying in bed and talking about "stupid things." But it is in fact, a very important conversation, and one that brings hope to them both, and even brings a song to John's lips. As Lennon sleeps, though, and Paul is left alone with his thoughts, and his new realities, his memories come through more clearly **(*********Trigger warning*********)**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to once again say "thank you" to everyone who is still reading this and to say I really appreciate all the kind comments. We're in for a rocky time of it, but Dawson has a notion, and it may be a very good one. Paul, however... well, you'll see next chapter.

Dawson was gone. He and Brian had left shortly after supper, promising to meet up again in the morning.

John was sleeping what Paul’s mother used to call “the sleep of angels” and his father would call “the sleep of the dead.” A full twenty-four hours of anxiety and fear and fuss had really taken it out of him and, after badgering Paul for several hours as to what, if anything, he might need from John (“Can I run you a bath? Would you like a massage? Shall I read to you?”), he was now dead to the world.

In truth, Paul had wanted nothing from John. What he needed was a bit of alone time – some silence, even – so that he might collect his own thoughts and get his bearings a little. To just consider all that had happened to him over the past day, and what it might mean for all of his coming tomorrows. But John had been insistent. He really needed to feel like he was doing something for Paul, and so Macca had finally agreed to being read to from the selection of books Brian had kindly brought along with him – mostly because Paul thought it would be the task most agreeable and enjoyable to his poor, frazzled mate.

And so, John had begun to read aloud from _Great Expectations_ , lasting about two full pages before declaring Dickens more than he could handle at the moment. “I’d much rather just lay here with you, love, and just hold you and talk about stupid things until we both fall asleep. Can we do that?”

“What kind of stupid things,” Paul had wondered.

“Well, the fact that we’re in bleedin’ identical pajamas, as though we were in a nursery, for starts.”

“They look good on you, though.”

“They’re the same as yours only blue!”

Paul smiled at his partner. “Brian always did like his Beatles to be dressed alike. And it was thoughtful of him.”

“Aye, it was, but I still feel like we should be called Tweedledum and Tweedledee.”

“You would…” Paul had moved his head until it was directly over John’s heart, settling in with a small moan of pain, which John actively tried to ignore, because his partner seemed to mind it when every wince went noticed. Lennon contented himself with stroking Paul’s hair.

“I’m so grateful that we can do this,” he murmured.

“What’s that, John?”

“Just…lay like this. Cuddle a little. I was so afraid it would be a long, long time before we could even have this, let along anything more…”

“Aye,” Paul whispered, pressing his lips softly to the fabric on John’s chest, feeling like the pajamas made it ‘safe’. “Just feels natural, yeah?”

“Imagine trying to be together, but not even touching,” John mused. “How could I ever…” He paused, trying to choose his words carefully. “You remember when you asked me to kiss you, in the bath? Before…well…”

“Before I remembered.”

“Yeah. Do you know, love, in that moment, I’d thought to myself that if all we could ever have between us where kisses like that one, it would be enough for me.”

He could feel Macca’s small nod.

“Well…” Lennon hesitated. “I need to tell you I was wrong.”

Paul lifted his head, his eyes showing an eloquent and obvious question.

“If _this_ is all we ever have,” John was cupping his face, and so gently, “just being together like _this_ , it will be enough for me.”

Paul tilted his head, as though gently correcting a small child. “You can’t be sure of that, though.”

“Oh, I think I can,” John sighed, telling himself if there was ever time for straight talk, this was it. “Maybe it’s different for you. I hope it’s not, but Paul… for me, it’s always been you. Nothing’s ever felt as right with anyone else as it has with you.” He saw Paul’s frown and rushed to explain. “And I don’t mean just the sex, I mean _all_ of it. The just being with you, the…the sleeping with you, the touching, the writing, the playing, even the layin’ around bored together… every minute with you _feels right_. Just…” For once in his life, John Lennon had no words for what it was trying to say. “Just the _all_ of it. With you, it’s all exactly right.”

Paul gave a toothless little grin, nuzzling John’s chest with his nose.

“There, now, you see?” John teased, “that was weird, you rubbin’ your nose on me. But it was… _just right_. Wouldn’t be so right with anyone else.”

“It’s the same for me, you know,” Paul agreed with an almost shy look on his face. “You’ve suited me from the day we met.”

“I’ve suited you.” John said, as though dumbfounded. “I’ve _suited_ you? Interesting way to put it.” He raised his fist as if it held a microphone. “Paul McCartney, young songwriter extraordinaire, tell us your deepest feelings about your relationship with that Lennon fellow!” He batted his eyelashes, affecting a megawatt Macca smile. “Well, what can I say, ‘I’m _suited_!’”

Paul gurgled at him, his eyes lighting up as he played along. “John Lennon, tell us how you really feel about that soft McCartney lad!” He lowered his voice, adding a nasally scouser twang. “Well, I mean, he’s just _all of it_ , innit ‘e, then? _Just right_ , he is,” he added, rolling his r’s with a flourish.

John threw his head back, laughing appreciatively at Macca’s accurate mimicry and urging his partner to raise his body enough to be embraced, a slow process that Paul manfully put himself through, for John’s sake. “And you are just right, lad” John laid the accent on thick. “All of you… _suits_ me to my toes.”

“I’ll confess something to you, if you don’t get a big head,” Paul said, settling in.

John’s eyes were lit with affection. “What, then, love?”

“If things were different…if the world were different?”

“Aye?”

Paul bit down on his lip, suddenly looking to John as though he was fifteen years-old again. “If the world were different, I’d never have looked further than you, John Lennon. I’d never have needed to.”

Lennon melted a little as he gazed at his partner. “Aw, babe…” An eyebrow went up. “But… _no_ birds? A renowned titty lover like you? Find it hard to believe, son.”

“I do love a nice set, it’s true,” Paul considered. “But then, I think on it, though… when we were younger, just kids… I used to daydream that we could date, you know… like a regular couple. Snog away in the park, or just … go to a movie and hold hands.” He blinked at John, enticing him all unconsciously. “If the world were different, I’d have just been yours, from the start. Because what you said was a real thing for me, too. Nothin’s ever been as right for me as bein’ with you, John.”

John smiled, brushing the fringe from Paul’s eyes. “You know, I was thinking, earlier today, when you were still napping and Dawson was yappin’ on the phone…I was remembering when we were kids, and how naturally it all started with us. How _innocent_ we were.”

“You’ve not been innocent since you were ten, or younger,” Paul objected.

“No, I just mean, you and me. I recall it so clearly. You were about sixteen and, God… the most beautiful thing I’d ever laid my eyes on.” John still seemed awestruck by what he was seeing beyond time. “And you were all in my head, all the time. Would fall asleep thinkin’ about you, wake up thinkin’ about you. But I could never figure out… _how do I make a move on Macca_?”

“As crass as that,” Paul asked, raising his eyebrows. “Sounds more scheming than innocent.”

“It might, if I ever actually hatched a plan to seduce you. Didn’t have a clue, though, and couldn’t bear the idea of you rejecting me. And so, yes, in that sense, I call it innocent. You were, at least, innocent of any design.”

“Praps less than you think, though. I knew you fancied me.”

“How did you know that, you braggart, you.” John pretended to huff.

“You were always looking at my lips, yeah? Like you wanted to kiss me.”

“I did want to kiss you.”

“Aye, but you were fecking late to the show, weren’t ya? Took me givin’ up waiting and [just rompin’ on you up in my bedroom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20798291) for you to finally bring on yer game.”

“Is that what you call it? _Romping_ on me? Truth is you treated my lap like it was your personal playground.”

“Wasn’t it, though?" Paul frowned. "Don't recall you offering much resistance. And I had to stake my claim, after all."

“And you did, Bunny. Got to be a very bad habit. ‘Is it three o’ clock? Time to straddle John, then! ‘Has the mail been delivered? Let's get up in John's lap, then!’”

John gazed at Macca for a long moment, allowing his memory to hold Paul in place – to see him once more so young, and so sweetly randy. His impossible, beautiful boy. He realized the memories were beginning to create a genuine stir in his loins, though, which would not be at all helpful this night, and maybe not for a long time.

“Change the subject,” he ordered quietly, holding his smile as he traced Paul’s lips with one fingertip.

“Alright,” Paul agreed, gently moving John’s hand away from his lips. “What if I make you a promise?”

“Promise me what, love?”

“That… when things get better.” Paul swallowed as though his throat hurt. “Because they have to get better, don’t they?”

John nodded, “They will…”

“When I can be ‘all of it’ for you, again, I’m gonna take you back to Paris, [and stand you on that bridge, and kiss you like we did](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119496)… but until you’re blue in the face.”

The frown on Lennon’s face was serious as he leaned in. “It's a lovely thought, but... we'll need no grand gestures, alright? Baby, didn’t you understand me? You are already, ‘all of it’ for me. Right now, this minute.” He tilted Paul’s head toward his. “I _love_ you, Paul. With everything I have in me, I _love_ you. I am more content with you -- just bein’ here with you like this, and talkin’ nonsense -- than I am anywhere else in the world. And If _this_ is where we are, forever, then this is enough, because _you_ are enough… baby? Look at me.”

He waiting for Paul, who had gone shy again, to return his gaze. “You are _all of it --_ all of my happiness, _my Jamie_ , and if I’m wrong for feelin’ that way, then God help me, because no one else can. And I can’t help myself.” He pressed his forehead to Paul’s, closing his eyes. “Do you _hear_ me, my Jamie? Can you finally understand? Because it’s taken me ‘til now to understand it myself. I’ve always wanted _all_ of you, demanded it, even. And lying here with you now, I realize that any little bit of Paul, is my Paul entire.”

He could feel his partner’s warm breath against his face as he sighed with real feeling. “I want to believe it, Johnny, I really do.”

John reached up one hand to the back of Paul’s head, gently holding him there, lest he try to move away. “My Jamie… I _bless_ the day I found you. I _do_!”

He began to croon. A favorite song emerged from his depths, and Lennon sang it straight into his Macca’s mouth, imagining the words enclosing and finally resting within the lad’s hurting heart. _“‘I bless the day I found you; I want to stay around you, and so I beg you, let it be me…’”_

Paul’s eyes were closed, and John nuzzled him as he continued to sing.

_“‘Don't take this Heaven from one  
If you must cling to someone  
Now and forever  
Let it be me…’”_

Paul was peeping, making odd little bird sounds as he listened and tried to hold himself together, and John’s heart felt gigantic in his chest as he managed the refrain.

_“‘Each time we meet, love  
I find complete love  
Without your sweet love  
What would life be?’”_

“Can you sing the rest with me love,” he swallowed, wondering if he could finish as his eyes grew wet. Paul shook his head, his hand going to his tight throat.

 _“‘So never leave me lonely…’”_ Lennon slowed down, giving him time.  
_“‘Tell me you… love me only..’”_

Words still beyond him, Paul was managing a hum, a harmony, naturally…

_“‘And that you'll always  
Let it be me…’”_

The song finished, unable to do more, the couple simply clung to each other, cheeks pressing together, for some minutes, until Paul could finally squeeze the words out. “I _do_ love you, Johnny.” His arms trembled a little as they went around Lennon’s neck. “With my whole heart, I love you. _I always have_.”

John held the embrace, blinking back a flood of tears that were threatening.

“I love you, baby. My sweet Jamie. I always _will_.”

After a beat, he felt Paul’s breath stagger, as though he’d snickered or was sobbing.

“Paul?” He whispered.

“Hmm?” 

“Are you crying?”

Paul sniffed. “No.”

“Are you laughing?”

A shake of the head.

“Are you alright?”

He felt a nod, heard a gulp. “I was just remembering something.”

 _Oh, God, not more…_ “What’s that, love?” John managed.

“D’ya remember when I passed out? When I got sick and passed out?”

“Aye?” John was not liking where this was going.

“You were callin’ me. You were calling out for me, and saying ‘ _Jamie, Jamie_ …’ and it was like I was being pulled through the water, into the air.”

“It felt like it, too, babe.”

“It’s just…” Paul breathed. “Thought you were my mum, at first. [You sounded like her.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611301)”

John squeezed his eyes closed, grinning, his arms pressing Paul into a harder embrace than was sensible. After a minute, he whispered. “Paul, my love?”

“Aye.”

“ _Remember_ those words -- those five words -- if ever I get too amorous and start trying to do something you don’t want, because they’re better than saltpeter. Better than a cold shower and saltpeter.”

Paul tried to pull away, but was trapped in John’s bear hug. “What five words?”

“‘ _Thought you were my mum…_ ’ You little rat bastard.”

Paul had laughed, then, really laughed, in a way he thought would be beyond him for the rest of his life.

It was a good sign, and he hugged it hopefulness to himself as he watched an exhausted John drift off to sleep, still cuddling him.

But Paul hadn’t been able to sleep, hadn’t wanted to, really. He needed to think about what needed to happen next in his life, because he was beginning to feel stranded.

When Brian had come with the pajamas and books, he’d brought other things, too – practical things, including a few changes of clothing for both Paul and John. “It’s a good thing we’re all so similarly built,” he had chattered, doling out several pair of his underclothes and tee shirts, some sweat pants and sweatshirts he’d clearly bought and never worn, and loose-fitting sweaters.

Paul had been appreciative, because he had no idea when he would be ready to go home, or even what “home” meant anymore. He wanted to leave the hotel. The very idea of remaining – in a building in which he’d been assaulted, and in a room only doors down from where the actual rape (his _rape_ ; he had been _raped_ , the jeering, insistent reminder came again) had happened-- was often overwhelming. This was the place where, for all practical purposes, his life may as well be considered ‘ended’ (though he tried to chase away that thought, it would keep rising).

No, he shouldn’t stay. He really wanted to leave.

But John Dawson was here in this place – he’d given them his room number as he’d left for the evening – and both he and John had come to deeply trust the man and to depend upon the strange tenderness that lay beneath his bearish exterior. His strength, coupled with his way of encountering awful realities with a thoughtful hum and clear eyes, made them feel stronger, too.

And besides, where would he go? The Asher house on Wimpole Street was fine for between tours, and for the little time he spent there when not in the studio or out with the lads, but it had never truly been “home,” despite the presence of Jane and her brother Peter, who was a friend. And the thought of returning there and having to explain _anything_ to any of them – most especially to Jane – or deal with their questions, their curiosities, even their sympathies…no, he couldn’t do it. The house had never been his home. That family had never been his family.

In Paul’s mind only Forthlin Road, the humble council house in Liverpool -- the place he’d lived the fullest and best part of his life before moving to London – was “home.”

But it wasn’t his, anymore. He’d moved his father to a grand house in Wirral, but that was Jim’s home, with his new family. And he had no wish to bring his current circumstances, his walking grief and new vulnerability, into his stepmother’s presence.

It was a startling thing to realize that, despite recently purchasing a fine old house on Cavendish, Paul McCartney was actually a homeless man. That house was under renovation and closed to him, too. When he’d expressed the thought to John, his partner had immediately said, “so you come live at mine.”

But no, the idea of bringing all of this into a house with Cynthia and that sweet child, no. He couldn’t.

Brian had graciously offered to move out of his own house for Paul’s sake, (“I can stay at my club for weeks, if need be,”) but again, no. The idea of displacing Brian from his own warmly beautiful home, when Brian so needed beauty around him – it was a repugnant thought to Paul.

He would settle it, somehow. Tomorrow Brian was coming back, and bringing George and Ritchie with him, for they’d been calling, asking for John and Paul, and the manager was out of excuses.

Paul was dreading the meeting, dreading sharing all of this with his bandmates, but it was necessary, he knew. It was their band to lose, too.

Afterwards, though, perhaps he’d ask Brian to find him a cottage to let for a while, six months or a year. A place where he could be alone. A place with no memories, so he could process all the new ones, as they came, each one laying him out, going nine rounds with his emotions and assaulting him all over again.

*************

_The comb_. The memory had flashed upon him like lightning the moment Dawson mentioned it, and then broadened over the next hours. Paul recalled lying bent across something, a table or bench, unable to move. Dawson had described the “twilight” sense of being drugged so well. He truly had felt like he was stranded in some distant field, in a gloaming, half dark, half light -- unable to fully waken or even to raise himself on his arms, and yet somewhat aware of what was happening.

Someone had pulled out of him some minutes earlier after going at him dry, making him feel ripped in two, and he could feel a stranger’s spunk, growing cool as it dripped from him. Men laughing, talking almost casually as they riffed through his clothes, and then a remark. _“Not exactly a working man’s comb, is it?”_ The leering voice, _“An elephant? You know what an elephant sounds like, then, don’t you?”_ And the thing had been shoved roughly inside him.

And he had screamed. A high pitched, long sound until something was shoved into his mouth. _How could no one have heard him?_ Crying out as they laughed, his eyes wide open, but seeing nothing as the pain tore through him and a hand roughly shoved the handle deeper, and then turned it – up and down, left and right -- moving it all around him as though the comb was a stirrer, and himself a pot of porridge.

And then the _snap_ as the thing broke within him. The cursing and laughter as two rough fingers reached inside him to withdraw the piece that remained. “Well, that had to hurt,” someone had said.

And then, only minutes later, someone else inside him, pulling at his hair until his neck was straining, someone else before him, stroking himself, and behind him only mindless rutting and thrusting, balls deep and rutting like an animal, until the grunting release.

*************

He remembered the pain, and being helpless to stop it. He remembered every thrust, and the feeling of his own warm blood flowing from him, traveling along with the combined filth of these strangers, these… _monsters_ , he thought. Somebody’s son, somebody’s husband, somebody’s…father.

But monsters at heart.

Dawson had asked for as much as Paul could tell him, but he’d not shared all of that, those details, most especially not before John. What would be the point? Why further hurt John? Why make himself harder for John to love? Because for all of John's heartful declarations, Paul was sure he was too polluted, too debased and soiled, to be truly lovable anymore. He would never tell John everything, then.

“I remember three men…” He hoped it had been only three.

And everything still hurt. Wiping silent tears from his face, he turned, wanting to lean into John’s arms, but the stabbing pains brought a low moan, and he stilled himself, fearing to awaken his partner. He settled for laying one arm over his.

The lights were on. He wasn’t up to moving as much as he would need to, to turn them off. And besides, he knew, John liked to sleep with the lights on. It kept him from being afraid of ghosts, he’d once told Paul. And the monsters.

Maybe, from now on, Paul thought, he would sleep with the lights on, too.

Even with the lights on, though, a new monster managed to slip into their room, right under the door as they slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Let It Be Me" was written by Pierre Delanoe / Gilbert Francois Leopold Becaud / Manny Curtis, covered by the Everly Brothers in 1960, and many artists since then.


	13. 20 Minutes of a Day in the Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's morning, and Paul's emotions are all over the place. One minute he is thinking he's dead, the next he is rallying himself and playing philosopher, the next he is deciding that a straight razor my not be the best thing to touch just now. He is anxious and haunted and still worried about John. He wants to reassure his mate that he's getting better, and he also needs a victory badly. He actually manages to have one -- a small one. But the need to be able to control something is driving him to do more than he should, and ignore what he shouldn't. Meanwhile, John's had a great night's sleep, but that doesn't mean his head is as clear as it should be, when he picks up an envelope and supposes it's something benign. This whole chapter comprises about twenty minutes of the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, sorry that this chapter was a little long in coming and then doesn't quite advance the story as far as you might like. George and Ringo, for instance, aren't arrived yet. But the chapter felt important to me, important for the internal progression of the characters, so I hope you stick with it. Hopefully the next chapter will not take a week as this one did. I really appreciate that you're all sticking with it, even though there is little let-up to the angst at this point. As I outlined further chapters this week I realized that this thing is going to end up being quite a bit longer than I'd planned. It might take us right into 1966 and the last tour, because I don't think we want to leave the story without knowing how Paul ends up, right? And John? And all the lads?
> 
> Anyway, thank you again for your reading and for the kind comments, which really help keep me going. I hope you like this.

It was the endless stabbing pain that awoke Paul so early. Why wasn’t he feeling better? How long would it take for his body to feel like his own again, without every movement bringing him the sharp reminder that, for a brief time, he had had no control over his limbs, his mind or mouth or … anything.

A brief time that might become a lifetime.

It was still dark out, not quite the twilight of morning, and he lay very still, allowing the flood of those memories already risen to wash over him, one flashback after another.

“You’re dead now,” he thought. No matter whatever good things happened in his life, there was a very real part of him that felt like it would never live again, and not _just_ the sexual part – which was a giant chunk of how he understood himself and the world – but something else. _Do I even have a spirit, anymore?_

The thought jolted him. He _must_ still have a spirit right? And yet he felt bereft of one, as though he was now a mere shell, emptied of whatever had animated him for 23 years.

It made no sense. How can an attack on the body steal the spirit? His mother had told him the spirit lives forever, that “[even in death we are in life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/46279126), my Jamie,” because the spirit was supernatural, a thing connected to God, even if God seemed far away. The spirit could not die she had told him.

And yet… it seemed to be the case. It felt true, that somehow, some way, something in his spirit had been murdered. And what was left, well… what _was_ left?

 _Pain_.

Pain was left. It was the primary thing he felt, overwhelming all other feelings, all thoughts, all instincts. His body ached in ways he never knew it could, not just his spine, his lower back, his poor ripped arse. Even his legs, his thighs hurt. His arms, his neck. If he tried to clear his head of unwelcome images – that other kind of pain, full of images he did not want but couldn’t seem to suppress -- he couldn’t do it, because of the pain that had taken command of his shell of a body.

Each time he tried to get away from the pain in his mind – by thinking back to happier days, or trying to imagine something beautiful – the agonies alive in his body would rip through him and bring him right back to where he was.

To a bed in a hotel room just doors down from where a living nightmare had become his all-consuming reality.

Consumed. They had consumed him. Passed him around and _consumed_ him, left only the bones, the hull of a man, behind. That’s all there was, now. 

And John. John was there, at least. His John, snoring very lightly as he slept at a depth he’d more than earned over the last days.

 _John_.

Paul turned his head to study his mate, his heart flooding with all sorts of competing feelings. The love – the unexplainable, inexhaustible love he’d felt for John Winston Lennon practically from the day he’d met. It was there, and real and warm. He would never not love his Johnny.

But then the fear. Fear that no matter how much love was between them, this thing might always intrude, until the shape and form of their relationship, of their love, must change, and then there would be loss. There would be such _loss_. 

Because _real love_ can only mean _real loss_ when it is injured, or altered. Or destroyed.

 _Come on, lad, pull yourself together_ , Paul told himself, trying to rally himself in the same way he’d often rally the band when they were weary and disillusioned and just not feeling it. _These are bad days. There will be better days, you must believe it._

But would there be? He recalled talking to himself in a similar way after his mother had died, and decided that _yes_ , there would be better days, just as they had come – so unimaginably – after losing her. Better days, but always accompanied by the slight scent of sadness that wafted around even on the best days, because the loss would always be there, wouldn’t it? The knowing of what was lost.

 _People say you get over things, but maybe you never do_ , he thought. Maybe you just go through them and get past them, like managing to escape from a bombing by running into a tube station. But even afterwards, something lingers. A city is rebuilt, even a city like London, but there are always reminders of loss in what remains. He recalled visiting Dublin and seeing the memorial to Daniel O’ Connell, “the liberator.” The city was now a peaceful and bustling place, but O’Connell’s statue still showed the bullet holes from the Irish Rebellion of 1916.

Nothing that survives a violent occurrence, a war, an assault, remains unscarred.

Paul’s question to himself was, how deep and thick would these scars be on him, and how much power, in the twin destructive forms of fear and shame, would he give to them over the course of the rest of his life? Would he have the stuff, the plain balls to just push on, no matter how ugly those scars were, no matter how unappealing they made him to anyone else – to John, to Jane.

 _To John_.

He winced as he leaned over, placing a kiss very lightly on John’s hair, not wishing to awaken him because -- as much as he appreciated John’s fussing, and needed his help – he hated it. Hated needing it. Hated feeling like he could control so little. He had always preferred parenting others to being parented.

Easing himself out of bed – more than once having to gasp through a wicked spasm that ran from his thighs, through his anus and far up his spine to do so – Paul finally got mobile. He looked through the pile of clean clothes Brian had so thoughtfully left for them and picked out drawers and a tee shirt, sweat pants and a sweater. Not his first choice in apparel but really, it didn’t matter if all he was going to do was sit in this room and force himself to tell George and Ritchie everything.

_Everything._

Not the details – he didn’t think the boys would want them and he couldn’t bear to even think about sharing them – but the facts, hard enough to speak aloud.

_I’ve been raped. By men, not one man._

He could almost imagine the looks on their faces. George’s fury, Ritchie’s sadness – it would all show immediately because neither of them had strong internal filters. George would want to murder someone. Richie would want to hold Paul in one of his all-engulfing hugs. They’d both sit and listen it all out, because that was something the two of them did amazingly well.

_I hurt like a bastard and all I want to do is cry._

_I’ve been bleeding on and off ever since._

No, he’d leave that last out.

_Oh, and by the way, John and I have been lovers since I was sixteen and romped all over him in my father’s house._

_And yes, we’ve been getting our jollies all around you lot for all long as you’ve known us._

_And we are in love. And we always have been._

_And we always will be._

Well, maybe he’d leave off the last, too. Why tempt fate?

Still only able to walk with the smallest of steps, and finding himself a bit hunched over from the pain this morning – _the bed must be bad_ – he made his way to the bathroom, grateful that all he needed to do was have a pee, because he was not ready to deal with anything to do with his ass at the moment. That was a dread for another hour.

He turned on the shower and watched his reflection in the mirror as he peeled off Brian’s pajamas – his pajamas, now, he reckoned. Brian surely wouldn’t want them back.

It was the first real look he’d have of himself. His chest. _Why would anyone bite me_?

He understood the appeal of biting during playful sex, consensual, romantic sex – he’d done it enough himself, after all, as anyone he’d ever been with could readily attest. But why would anyone bite him, mark him on his chest, and his nipples during…

_To stain me. To remind me that I was owned by them._

Owned.

Not really, no. _But yes._ He'd been owned. Hadn't even been able to mount a respectable defense.

 _Maybe I won’t shave,_ he thought eyeing his safety razor as he rubbed his two-day growth, which was already formidable _. Maybe I don’t want to get too close to a razor just now…_

He slid the pajamas and drawers down his legs, trying not to bend much, and stepped out of them. Some bruises on the insides of his thighs. And yes, some blood on the drawers. More than a little, but dried, now, so it had stopped again. _That’s good. Means I’m getting better, yeah_? A groan as he stooped to gather the clothes, folding everything neatly, hiding the bloody whites beneath the jacket and pants.

The room was filling with steam and he was looking forward to hot water on his muscles, especially his back, easing up on some of his pain. _One more step up, into the shower, then_ , he encouraged himself.

With shaking hands he began to wash as best he could, even using the bar of soap for his hair because finding the shampoo would mean twisting and turning – it would make him "twist and shout", came the rueful thought -- and right now economy of movement felt like it would be the order of the day.

The warm water did feel good, although what traveled down between his backside and reached his raw wound stung more than he’d expected.

 _Exhausting_. Pain was so exhausting.

Shutting off the water, he had to stand for a moment, needing to cling to the wall to gather enough strength to simply step out of the tub. Such a big step again, and he was actually afraid of it. He didn’t want the breathtaking pain. Didn’t want to fall because of it.

_Perhaps call John, tell him you need help._

_No. Pull it together, lad. You can do this._

But he didn’t really know if he could.

Feeling a bit like a trapped rabbit, Paul simply stood there, eyes pressed closed, as he trembled.

John had heard the shower turn on – the squeak of the handle got through to him – and now he was slowly coming out from under a deep and restful sleep. He felt better. Today was going to be another hard day, he knew, but he’d be fit for it, and therefore useful. And Paul was showering by himself. That was a good sign, right? Good for him.

He sat up slowly, instantly caught up in the coughing that was part of his morning ritual. He smoked too much. They both did, and yet somehow Macca didn’t spend every morning hacking up a lung, at least not yet. _We should cut back, the both of us_ , he thought. _Maybe we can try that together, make it a little project we could share. Something that has nothing to do with the last few days, and could pull us together, bond us, like._

John was pleased with that thought and rather excited that he had come up with a sort of joint-project for them to focus on. _Because we’re partners, aren’t we? We’ll do it together._

Feeling much lighter than he had, he put on his glasses and opened the draperies, then crossed the room, turning out all the lamps he always left on in the night. Near the door, his bare foot nicked something and he reached down, frowning. Why would the hotel be slipping them the bill so far in advance?

_One, two, three…there you go, Paulie, leg up, foot out, fucking bastard goddamn that hurts. Careful. Hold on. Step down. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Christ and Mary it hurts. Get dry, get dry…you can do this._

He was doing it.

_Slow as fuckin’ treacle, McCartney, but you’re your own man, ain’t ya? Towel on the head. Towel around the waist, now. Come on, boyo, just bend a little. Bend. Fucking bend._

It felt too heavy to be a bill. Perhaps something from Brian or Dawson, dropped off while they were sleeping. Sitting on the edge of the bed, bleary and wishing he had coffee, John used a finger to break the seal, still wondering why a hotel bill would arrive sealed in a manila envelope of all things.

 _Well, shit. Well, fuck. Fuck this shit._ Paul actually felt a little amused at the endlessly foul language running through his head. _Shit, fuck, fuckthisshit. Aye, and_ _who said you weren’t a lyricist, then_? He leaned full-armed on the counter and actually chuckled to himself at his pathetic half-dressed situation – tee shirt on, towel dropped from his waist, and drawers in his hand, his body absolutely refusing to conform itself to the bending and stepping needed to put the damn things on, and his mind a nonstop festival of vulgarity that brought some sense of release.

_Fuck this independence shit, lad. Call John to fucking help you._

_But no. He shouldn’t see. He shouldn’t see me like this._

John was hunched in place, staring at what was in his hands.

There was a whole sheaf, at least five photos, but he wouldn’t look, couldn’t look beyond the first. He couldn’t breathe. _Never wanted to see this. Ought never to have seen this!_

_Christ, Paul!_

He could feel his nerves jumping, his whole body trembling, as though an electric current were running through him at high voltage – he was actually breaking into a sweat, could feel his skin begin to cool as his hands became swampy. He wanted to shove it all, the vile, horrible pictures, back into the envelope _, stupid idiot why didn’t you stop and think?_ But his hands were shaking too violently, and his gorge was rising and was he going to pass out? _Oh Christ, Lennon, don’t pass out. Hide this shit, though. Hide this. Fuckers. Shit. Fuckers. These fuckers. Oh, Paul. Oh, my Paulie. Oh, God, my Paul!_

He felt sick down to his sinews. Were he not biting his fist, he knew, he would be screaming enough to shake the very walls and windows. Just screaming.

Finally, he’d had what he thought was a bright idea. Paul had lowered the toilet lid and spread a folded towel over it, thinking to cushion himself a bit. He sat as gently as his could given his exhausted, unsteady legs, but still the pain came shooting forth, like white lightning flashing through his brain and momentarily blurring his vision. _Fuckinfuck, my ass is sore! Goddamn Fuck!_ It took a minute of stillness and then some deep preparatory breaths before he could put himself through the agony of completing his wardrobe, but – _like a bandage lad, all at once, do it all at once and be done with it, the anticipation is worse than the actual pain_ – he shoved his legs into his drawers and then into the pants without stopping to acknowledge his distress, or even to breathe.

He was full of shit. The pain was every bit as bad as the anticipation.

_Okay, you’re screaming a little, stop screaming, take it down a decibel. Just a little yelling, that’s fine, yelling. Oh, Christ. Oh, Christ. But you’re done. You’re done now, you’re okay. You’re moaning, but that’s okay. Stand up, off your bleedin’ ass. You’re still moaning a little. Breathe. Stop shaking, ya big baby. Just stop._

It was easier to tell his body to stop shaking than to make it happen. But Paul had managed by himself, and he felt immensely proud of it. He might be shuddering and sweating enough to need another shower, and he might be leaning his forehead on the marble wall as he breathed through the pain that still resonated through him like a sounding gong giving off its final reverberations, but he had done it. He had showered and dressed himself, and he couldn’t wait to show his little victory to John – offer some evidence to his lover that he was getting back on his feet, at least a little. As soon as he stopped moaning and sobbing.

But he wasn’t sobbing. His own moans were ebbing away, and he wasn’t sobbing, hadn’t cried at all, in fact. 

_John_.

_Oh, what now, Johnny?_

He was almost afraid to open the bathroom door. He could hear it clearly now, the all-too-familiar sound of John suffering some kind of anguish. The whisper-like moans, as though he had trained himself to never let them be heard. The sobs that would break through, like marauding invaders, nevertheless.

“Johnny,” Paul said softly, peering around the door. “Johnny? Are you alright?”

He gingerly made his way over to the bed, where his mate was lying face down, crying into a pillow – as though he hadn’t wanted to be heard – his hands clutched beneath him. Paul put a hand on his shoulder. “Babe? What is it? What’s happened?”

John didn’t answer, couldn’t seem to acknowledge him, as he continued to shudder on the bed. “Hon? Can you turn over? Can you let me see you?”

He thought he heard a “no.”

“Johnny, come on. We’re already through the worst of it, yeah?" He put on his best rallying voice. "Turn yourself over, love. You can look at me dressed in these clothes and have a laugh.”

With a noise that sounded like a hard and resistant surrender, John managed to turn on to his side. He looked up at Paul with agonized eyes, his face wet with tears, an envelope clutched between two fists.

“What’s that, then,” Paul asked, trying to take it from him. John pulled it back.

“ _What is it?_ ” He whispered intently, suspecting that he knew the answer.


	14. Make a promise to me, Paul McCartney. Say the words.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After arguing about it, John permits Paul to see one of the photos that have been slipped under their door, but it turns out to be a blank moment in Paul's memory. Dawson arrives with a stolen breakfast cart and Paul fights with him about seeing more, but also sees some reasons to be encouraged about whether the photos will ever be leaked out. The detective is glad to see Macca pushing back, and decides to show him one more photo, but only if Paul makes a promise. Paul reveals some of the ugly anxieties he is beset with, particularly his worry about how George will take all of this information. Dawson gets an important promise out of him, and just in time, too, because both George and Ringo are about to arrive with Eppy...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks! Sorry this was delayed a little bit. Difficult to find time to write this weekend, but I really wanted to finish this chapter before today, so I'm sorry. In the next chapter George Harrison and Ringo Starr show up, and things will begin to move much faster. A few answers will start to emerge, although they may muddy the waters further, at least at first. Thank you all so much for reading and please know I really do appreciate your feedback. You guys give me a lot to think about!
> 
> Also, ***********PLEASE NOTE TRIGGER WARNING with the usual 9 ASTERISK SIGNAL: ***********

John had snatched the envelope back, and was holding it to his chest, arms crossed before him.

“John, don’t be stupid, let me have it.”

“No.”

“It’s…” Paul swallowed, his whole body beginning to vibrate as he leaned over the bed. “It’s the pictures…it is, right?”

All John could do was stare at him, his eyes huge as he met Paul’s own, his expression a potent cocktail of exquisite pain mixed with deep worry.

“I need to see them. Please. If you’ve seen them, love, then I think I should.”

Words still beyond him, John held Paul’s gaze, and slowly shook his head ‘no’.

Paul’s hand went to his stomach, as a bout of dizziness struck him. _Steady_ , he told himself. If John wasn’t going to be reasonable or strong, then he would have to be for both of them. _Twice as reasonable, twice as strong_. Straightening up as well as he could manage, and trying not to betray his persistent difficulty in walking, he crossed the room and picked up the phone, dialing the number beside it.

John followed him with his eyes and couldn’t help noticing the stiff gait --the way Paul was trembling. He seemed so shaky on his legs that John got up and followed him.

“Mr. Dawson, it’s Paul – Paul McCartney, I mean,” he heard his partner say. “I’m sorry, I know it’s early but we need you. Please come.” A pause. “Can’t discuss it over the phone. Please just come.” He hung up abruptly – so unlike him not to say “thank you” – and John caught him around the waist as he seemed to lose his legs.

“Alright, Paulie, I’ve got you,” he murmured reassuringly. “Here, come sit down,” he led the shaking man to a chair and tried to seat him, but Paul was having difficulty lowering himself. It took several tries before he could sit, and when he finally managed it, the lad let out a tight, closed mouth grunt of pain.

“What’s wrong with you,” John asked in concern. “You’re very pale, love. You seem so weak.” He poured out a glass of water, which Paul gratefully accepted with a trembling hand.

“Might have overdone it this morning,” he admitted as he drank. “But look. Showered and dressed, I am.” He couldn’t quite manage the smile he’d planned on showing John with his big reveal.

“You should have let me help you. Look at the state you’re in.” John knelt before him, peering worriedly into Paul’s face. “Baby, you look like hell. What can I do for you? Perhaps we should have the doctor --”

“No, I’m fine,” Paul insisted. “Just tired, yeah? Maybe should have asked for your help, after all.” He handed the glass off to John and leaned forward with a grimace, looking into John’s face as though trying to convince him. “I just wanted to surprise you, Johnny. Show you I’m getting better.”

John looked only doubtful. “Is that what you’re doing? Trying to convince me you’re fine? A blind man could see you’re not, Paul.” He took Paul’s hand, lacing their fingers. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know. I’d rather you be honest.”

Paul pressed his forehead to John’s and grabbed tightly at his wrist. “Johnny, I need to see those pictures. If you’ve seen them, then I need to. I need to see what you’ve seen.”

John hesitated. He knew his partner. He knew that if he resisted, Macca would simply be relentless, continuing to make the same demand, over and over, or he would shut down – and shut John out – until he got what he wanted. _Obstinate bastard, from the very first day…_

But he couldn’t help noticing Paul’s choice of words. He wasn’t saying he wanted to see the images, only that he _needed_ to. A real need is hard to say no to, John considered, and in truth he understood what lay behind it. He knew that Paul’s imaginings of what John might have seen and withheld from him would be always be worse than the real thing, and would leave the lad feeling anxious, insecure and forever wondering.

He understood it, yeah, but John thought of a way to limit the damage. “There are five or six photos, love.” Lennon whispered. “I only saw the first. It was bad enough.”

Paul knew exactly what his partner was doing. He meant to see all the photos, to get a sense of what exactly might already be leaking out into the world. But he appreciated that John was trying to shield him. For now, he’d give his mate a break – accept a compromise that let him feel like he was successfully protecting his Macca.

“Let me see the first one, then” Paul sighed. “Anything you’ve seen, I should see. You said we were in this together.”

John huffed out a frustrated breath, deeply regretting his promise, but nodded. Retrieving the envelope, he reached in without looking, sliding out the first image among the sheaf and handing it over.

There was Beatle Paul McCartney – _the cute one_ – in profile from his left, a rigid, thick-veined cock buried to the hilt in his mouth and a hand grasped tightly in his hair.

Beatle Paul McCartney being used but that wasn’t obvious. Nothing in the image would suggest to an unwitting viewer that the lad wasn’t a willing participant -- sensual and even aroused if the half-closed eyes were an indicator – in a homosexual act both illegal and largely thought repulsive to society.

From this angle, his face was unmarked and beautiful, his famously long, almost feminine, eyelashes emphasized by the angle. Perhaps he had not yet been slapped and bruised. Paul didn’t know. In his memory, the scene before his eyes was a blank moment. There was a hint of a collar, so his shirt had not yet been ripped from him, but that was all he could glean from it.

Paul had set his face into a neutral expression – he had decided before looking that he would try to be dispassionate, view the thing as though it were any piece of porn, having nothing to do with him -- but now, as the photo slipped out of his hand, his bland mask began to scare John. He had expected Paul to look horrified, or frightened, or furious. He had certainly expected an outburst of some sort.

But Macca looked only dazed and withdrawn. He was staring blankly at the floor, as though his mind had fled, leaving only a catatonic shell. His pupils were blown, making his eyes appear almost black.

John laid a hand on the lad’s head, meaning to stroke his hair, and that seemed to pull Paul back into the present. He shook off John’s hand. “I want to see the rest.”

Lennon instantly regretted thinking he could ever control McCartney on this – _on anything really important_. He scooped up the photo, slipping it in with the rest and holding it behind his back. He decided to be as peremptory as his mate. “Well, you won’t. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“John—”

“I’m not arguing with you,” he said, stepping toward the door, where a faint knocking had begun. “We’ll let Dawson decide, then, yeah?”

It was Dawson, unexpectedly wheeling in a breakfast cart as he entered and quickly closed the door behind him. Instantly John slapped the envelope into the older man’s hand, glad to be rid of it, and took charge of the cart with gratitude.

Rather than immediately opening the envelope, Dawson surveyed the room. Only after noting the grim looks on both men’s faces -- McCartney’s pallor all the more emphasized by Lennon’s anxious flush – did he give his attention over to the packet in his hands. Neither lad looked at him. John busied himself with preparing tea; Paul simply sat, head down, looking at his lap. They could hear the detective pacing about, could hear pages being slid and turned as they were silently perused without comment – without so much as a sigh or a gasp betraying his thoughts to them.

Paul felt John lean in toward him, hand on his shoulder as he brought a cup of tea. “Have this, love. It’ll settle you.”

His partner shook his head, refusing to raise his head, forcing John to hunch down before him. “Take it, Paul, come on. Can’t have you passing out again.”

Once again, a headshake. But with the refusal the look Paul gave him broke John’s heart. Those eyes, those beautiful, expressive Macca eyes, were communicating nothing but deep and utter shame. The look hit John like a sledgehammer, because it was one he knew only too well – had seen it on himself too many times, and understood the self-loathing that lay beneath it. It was a look that said, _I don’t deserve tea, especially not from your hand._

He put the cup on the floor and took both of Paul’s hands into his own. Warm, dry hands, nearly limp, as though the fight had gone completely out of him. “Baby, listen to me,” John spoke slowly, so as to emphasize each word. “You have been _greatly sinned against_. You’ve done nothing wrong. You have nothing to feel ashamed about.”

Paul couldn’t meet his eyes. With a toss of his head, he indicated Dawson. “He’s lookin’ at all of ‘em,” he whispered. “He’s seein’ everything.”

“You know you can trust him, love” John whispered back, “He’s a good man, he is.”

“All the more reason I can’t stand it. Johnny…” Paul’s head fell again and John felt his shoulders slouch down in defeat. “Johnny,” came the agonized whisper. “ _I just wanna die_.”

The words chilled Lennon to his bones, and a thousand speeches ran through his head, all of them learned-as-delivered by Paul himself, on those nights when John had lapsed into self-hate and recrimination over yet another failing, and his ever-optimistic partner would buck him up with words of encouragement – telling John he was an ass to hate himself when everyone else loved him, that his talent-was trustworthy, that things would all work out.

The words had worked on John because he was a praise junkie who wanted, needed to hear them, especially from his Macca, who always sounded so confident as he said them. He doubted they’d work on Paul, partly because authors so frequently disbelieved their own stuff, and partly because platitudes would not be helpful in this moment, but mostly because John didn’t think he could deliver them with the same sense of profound believability. If he merely sounded panicked, none of it would get through to his lover. _Maybe he needs to reach a rock bottom_ , his instincts told him. _And maybe this is it. Let him feel it…_

And so, he let Paul’s terrifying words stand, undenied and unrebutted. His own feelings were a tumult of helpless and fast-rising fear, but he breathed slowly and simply pulled the broken, uncharacteristically defeated Macca into his arms – let him bury his face into his neck and disappear for a while.

Dawson, meanwhile, had gone to the phone, and John could hear him speaking very quietly to Brian Epstein. He didn’t hear it all, but he clearly was instructing Eppy to get on the horn to whomever he’d spoken to the day before.

Finally, the ex-copper cleared his throat, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “There is breakfast here,” he said in a deliberately casual voice. “I’m not sure what, exactly, as I stole this off a roomservice boy, and forced him to go get a whole new set up. I just saw coffee and tea and assumed we’d need it.” He poked around amid the plates. “There’s toast and things. I won’t bother trying to convince you to eat, because I know you won’t, Mr. McCartney. Although you really _should_ eat, the both of you.”

He studied the two men, as still as statues before him at the moment, and decided to simply let them be for a bit while he fortified himself with caffeine and then used the bathroom. He emerged carrying a folded towel, and ready to disturb the lads from their quiet consolations. He squatted down on his hamstrings to match their level.

“Gentlemen, this is obviously terrible, but also encouraging. I do think we should talk about a few things. May I ask how the photos were delivered to you? Did you open the door to anyone?”

After John explained _(“I wasn’t thinking or I’d not have opened it…”)_ , Dawson nodded his head, seeming not at all panicked. “Alright, so, they know you are here, of course. How they know it I hope to discover shortly. Nevertheless, I’m glad I intercepted someone’s breakfast for you, and we’ll forego any room service while you’re here.”

John lifted his head in stunned comprehension. “You think they’d try to kill us? _Poison_?”

“No, not really,” Dawson answered gently. “Not poison, anyway – with a ransom demand like that one, you don’t then kill your subject, or there’s no payoff. But… if they’ve used a drug once, they might use it again.” He held up a restraining finger before John could speak. “I don’t think it at all likely, but we’ll use an abundance of caution, you see.”

Lennon was quiet but nodded appreciatively. From the area around his neck, though, came Macca’s voice. “’Ransom’, did you say?” He pulled himself from John’s arms, wincing as he settled back into the chair. Still unable to meet anyone’s eyes, he nevertheless sounded stronger as he asked. “What _ransom_?”

 _There he is_ , John thought with a relieved sigh. _Still some fight left in him. Not dead, sirrah, but wounded_.

“Did you not see the note, then? In the envelope with the photos?”

John explained how the morning had played out, adding, “Not being willing to look at the rest, we never saw a note.”

What Dawson then showed him was a piece of paper held between the edges of a handkerchief. “Just look, don’t touch it, please. Evidence.”

John brought his head near, squinting. “ _Five million pounds buys the negatives. We will be in touch,_ ” he read aloud.

“Hmm,” Dawson agreed, seeming slightly amused. “Similar handwriting to the first note, too. Apparently, they merely want to make a withdrawal from the national economy, not destroy it wholly.” Seeing the quizzical expression on Lennon’s face, he explained, “Someone involved in this is smart enough to know that these pictures, were they to be released, would not only destroy Mr. McCartney but your whole band, which would have a substantial and quite negative impact upon the entire British economy”

“Aye, Britain is being rebuilt on our backs and we’re still not rich. The whole reason we were given the bloody MBE to begin with,” John huffed. “All the money we bring in.” He looked up sharply. “That sort of confirms, though, that those toffs from the other night are behind this, doesn’t it?”

“Not really,” Dawson shrugged. “One needn’t be a toff to understand the Beatles’ impact on that head. But the ransom demand is actually smart and on-point.”

“So, they’re rapists, but they’re _smart_ rapists who can reason,” Paul sneered in a hoarse voice. “They’re _reasonable_ rapists. They’ll rape a man, but have a care for the land and the till, is that what you’re sayin’, Mr. Dawson?”

“There is no such thing, sir, as a reasonable rapist,” Dawson corrected with a firm voice a sharp eye turned toward him. “There are only evil, sick rapists and evil, sick rapists who also manage to be cunning. These men, whoever they are, possess cunning. But don’t credit that too highly, Mr. McCartney. Calculation is a soul-less thing. Even machines can do it.”

As he spoke, he studied Macca’s pasty complexion, noted the darkening shadows under his eyes, and deftly changed the subject. “Mr. Lennon,” he turned toward John. “Mr. Epstein and your bandmates will be here soon enough. Perhaps you should—”

“Aye,” John cut him off, nodding toward Paul. “Now you’re here with him, I’m going to see to that.” He patted Paul’s shoulder, this time placing the teacup on the arm of his chair. “Alright, Macca? I’ll shit, shower and shave and all?”

His partner winced -- whether at the strength of the pat or the vulgarity of the patter was unclear – and wordlessly waved him off, keeping his eyes on Dawson, who was placing a chair so near his own that when he sat their knees were practically toughing.

“How are you feeling, then, Mr. McCartney?”

“I wish you’d call me Paul,” the younger man frowned. “Now you’ve seen those pictures, I guess we’re past formalities.”

“On the contrary, now I’ve seen those pictures, I am even more inclined to give you full respect on all counts.”

“You needn’t throw a pearl before this swine,” Paul answered in a sullen voice. “But, look, I want to see them, the rest of the pictures.”

“I think that would be unwise, given your condition.”

“My condition,” Paul made an impatient sound, dismissing the detective’s concern. “I just overtaxed myself, my _condition_ is fine. Show them to me now, while John’s away,” he insisted. His expression when sour. “You see, I’m cunning, too.”

“I beg to differ, son. You are neither swine, nor cunning. As to the pictures I am quite sure you need not see them.”

“They might help me remember something important.”

“That’s less likely than you may think, sir.”

“Look, Dawson,” -- it was the first time Paul had not used ‘mister’ -- it’s _my_ life, _my_ image, if these snaps concern anyone—”

“It’s my considered professional opinion, sir--”

“Aw, then, fuck yer considered—” Paul stopped himself, grimacing as he adjusted his position, and betrayed himself with a soft but unstoppable groan of pain.

“Sorry,” he offered, scratching at his head and wondering at his ready rudeness. “Didn’t mean that.” He reached out, accepting a cigarette Dawson had lighted for him, and wolfing down smoke. “Alright,” he breathed. “I’ll tell you what. Show me _one_ – the one you think is the worst of it. If I see the worst, at least it puts a limit on what I can imagine. And then I’ll let you ‘considered opinion’ me to death. How’s that for a compromise?”

Dawson pondered the offer in light of what he already knew about Paul McCartney. He had been quite enjoying their little row -- found it heartening that despite being obviously unwell, the lad was pushing back and showing the inherent stubbornness the detective had already perceived in him. _Still some strength at his core, then, and he wants me to see it_.

“Alright,” Dawson decided. “But I will hold you to it. I’ll show you what I think is the worst image, and then you must hear what I have to say.”

The lad was smoking furiously, his whole body tensed as he nodded and reached out a hand.

“To my eye, the subject in most of these photos looks like he is under some duress,” Dawson explained. “Only the photo you have already seen and now this will seem less obvious, which makes them the most damning.”

If Paul had had no memory of the first image, the one in now in his hand was a moment he recalled clearly, and it was repellent.

**_*********_ **

_Open your eyes, darling, give us a big smile while Cholly makes your lovely cock happy._

_NononostopitIdon’twantthis_

_Two fingers shoved roughly up inside him, dry. The pain is searing and his eyes fly open, his mouth, too, flies open._

_A flash of light._

_Laughter_

_He enjoyed that, didn’t you Paulie?_

_************* _

**** Paul stared at it with a face like a blank mask, the only evidence of his distress seen in how quickly and ferociously he began to gnaw on the tip of his thumb, and in the exquisite tension along his jaw line. He blinked several times as he looked. “I thought,” he spoke finally, eyes still glued to the image before him. “I thought if I saw the pictures I would remember more. Maybe something important…”

 _Brave lad_ , Dawson thought. _The valor of my noble boy_. “This photo jars nothing in your memory, then,” he asked.

“Well,” Paul continued to stare, forcing himself to look for much longer than he liked. “No, not really. I can see there’s no blood…so…it’s early in the—in the process. And you said – I think it was you mentioned it, but maybe I’m misremembering…something about how pleasure and pain can look the same…”

With a shake of his head, finally looking away, he handed the photo back to the detective. “I felt nothing but pain in that moment. And…fuckin’ fear. I didn’t know what was going on, who they were, why any of it was happening. Didn’t know if they were gonna kill me.” He bit his lip, lowering his gaze to his lap again as his voice faded. “The picture doesn’t show… my fear. I was just so…so…afraid. So fuckin’ scared.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe if I’d not been so afraid, I could have fought ‘em, gotten away.”

“Mr. McCartney, fear played no part in how stranded you were. Given what I was told about your condition afterwards, I surmise that you’d been quite heavily drugged.” Dawson’s tone was firm, but gentle. “I’m perfectly sure that – however much you may have understood in these moments you remember, or however much you wanted to get away, you had very little actual control over your body, or even your thoughts.” He gestured toward the teacup, still resting on the arm of the chair. “You ought to drink that, you know.”

Paul shrugged off the good advice, his dark eyes roaming about the room, not focusing or resting on anything, as he tore at a cuticle until his thumb was bloody.

With Lennon not available to do it, Dawson presumed to take Paul’s hand and gently pull it from his mouth. With a helpless look, the boy immediately went for his other hand, this time going for his pinky finger.

“My lad, listen to me. And look at me, if you will.” Paul’s eyes settled in the general area of the older man’s face. “Courage does not mean an absence of fear. It means one is fully afraid and yet goes forward -- dealing with whatever circumstances befall one. Many men could not have faced the fact of photographs, much less insisted on seeing them.”

Paul seemed to be soothing his finger after a hard bite, but his eyes were intent on Dawson. He was clearly listening.

“You have remained observant when many would have – quite understandably – preferred to disconnect. You have shown a willingness to assist in piecing together what has happened that is rare in rape victims. I am often impressed in your instincts and how you reason.”

The detective reached for Paul’s untouched tea, claiming it as his own with a large slurp. “In short, son, I see nothing of the coward in you. Quite the opposite. Although,” his eyes teased a little. “I don’t blame you for being afraid of the tea when it’s gone cold.”

Macca remained silent, wondering where Dawson was going with this speech, and watching him finish the tea with a clatter of cup and saucer.

“It is precisely because I know you are no coward, that I will now speak to you plainly.” With a small smile of victory, he shook a finger Paul’s way. “And you, my boy, will have to listen to me, because that was the deal, yeah?”

“Excuse me for sayin’ it, but seems like you’ve been talkin’ a long time already,” came the response.

Dawson laughed out loud. “Ah, you Northmen. You none of you can take a good word well. What you can’t answer with bluster, you smother with brattiness.”

Paul allowed himself a small upturn of his lips. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him a brat. “Alright well, let’s hear the rest of it, then. Your ‘considered opinion’?”

With that invitation, Dawson grew serious. Picking up the towel he had discretely placed on the floor, he unfolded it before McCartney, exposing a now-dried bloodstain.

Paul saw it and sighed, suddenly feeling very exhausted. John’s moans that morning had distracted him. He’d not noticed the staining or he’d never have left the towel in place.

“You’re still bleeding,” Dawson said simply.

Paul glared, but there was no bite to it. “On and off. It’s better. And that’s from last night, you know. I’m better.”

“Hmmm,” Dawson’s low hum was becoming familiar enough to read, and he knew the cop wasn’t buying it. “You’ll never be cunning, Mr. McCartney, until you become more adept at lying. But I doubt that’s in your nature. In the meantime, I must say it. In my considered professional opinion… and in my _personal_ opinion as well…you must be seen to. You must have a doctor.”

Paul’s rebuttal was silence. A tired shake of the head.

“It’s understandable to be afraid—”

“Ain’t afraid,” he spat out. “I’m just alright. Gettin’ better.”

“You’re clearly not.” Dawson’s lips were a flat line of frustration. “Look… _Paul_ …I have seen firsthand what can happen with wounds like yours. There can be infection--”

“Ain’t infected,” Paul argued, “just a slow healer. Look, do you realize what it would be for me to go to some doctor and…and have to explain it all? The risk of it comin’ out and bein’ known?”

“Do you know,” the investigator tried to reassure him, “priests have heard everything in the confessional, and doctors have seen everything in their operating theaters, and anything the two of them know about, we cops have cleaned up first hand. There is really nothing new under the sun, lad. No doctor is going to faint to see your wounds—”

“Yeah, that sounds great, until you add ‘Beatle Paul McCartney’ into the confessional or the hospital or the crime scene. Then everything becomes new under the sun.” Paul was uncharacteristically bitter-sounding. “I’m already hearin’ it in my head – for I know someone will say it -- ‘sure, the rumors about you and Lennon, well if you’re already takin’ it up the arse, whatever happened here shouldn’t be so earthshaking, should it? Not like if it happened to a _normal_ bloke.’ I can just…” He buried his face in his hands. “ _Christ_ , for all I know that's just what George or Richie will say when we tell them everything. Not Ritchie," he amended, sounding strangled as he whispered, " _Georgie..._ ”

At hearing his muffled groan, Dawson sat back, feeling as though he’d be slapped in the face with the full weight of anxiety McCartney was carrying as he anticipated telling everything to his bandmates, and possibly to doctors who were also complete strangers to him. _Well, you’re full of good advice until you come up against something you know nothing about_ , the copper scolded himself. Still, his concerns were too real, and too serious, to be let go of. With a sigh, he ducked his head down and tried to catch Paul’s eye.

“Look, you,” he said gently. “If I may…why don’t you and Mr. Lennon put off telling your mates about your relationship. Save that for a better day. I think you should let Mr. Epstein and me tell them what they need to know about the assault on your person—”

“I’m not going to hide from them,” Paul looked up with that defiant tone.

“Of course not,” Dawson soothed. “You’ll be right there with us, and can add whatever you like. But you needn’t put yourself through the telling of it. I promise you, son, I have enough experience to not drag it out.”

Macca had to admit, the idea of not having to speak all of it aloud, except as he really needed to, sounded good. So did the notion of putting off the whole “by the way, we’re lovers” thing. As he considered Dawson’s advice, Paul could feel an enormous weight lift from his chest -- felt like he could breathe for the first time all morning, or perhaps longer. Perhaps for two days.

Hands between his knees, he nodded at the old copper. “That actually sounds…wise. Sorry,” he worried, “not bein’ condescendin’. Just…it’s good advice, and all. I think I might appreciate you doin’ that.”

“I will be glad to take that weight from your shoulders, my young lad, and I’ll ask only the smallest price of you for it.”

Macca closed his eyes. “Let me guess…”

Dawson raised a hand to his forehead, holding it there for a moment. “You must promise me. _Promise_ me… that if you take on the slightest hint of fever—”

Paul felt the older man’s comforting, almost fatherly touch and nearly cried to realize how badly he’d needed it. He finished the sentence, “I will have a doctor,” he sighed in surrender.

“Make a promise to me, Paul McCartney. Say the words.”

His brown eyes opened to meet the gaslight blue ones before him. He was stunned at how wet they seemed, and at the pleading look that came from behind them. Finding himself quite moved by the detective’s soft and sincere expression, he offered a hand to Dawson, who grasped it both of his own, and then did as he was asked.

“If I get a fever, I’ll have a doctor,” he agreed with a low voice and a searching air of his own. “I _promise_ , John Dawson.”


	15. Besame Mucho...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George and Richie finally arrive and are told about the assault on Paul, leaving out some of the more brutal details. Something like "scouser anarchy" breaks out in the room, and things are emotion-laden, turbulent, and entirely up-and-down. There are accusations and fisticuffs, and it all looks pretty grim for the band, until a memory brings them back to music, and to thinking about what they can do for Paul... before it suddenly all goes bad. Very bad, and very bloody. But first, the lads actually manage to share some smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, everyone, and for all of your comments which really do help keep me on track. Hopefully I'll have the next chapter up before the weekend! This one is hard, and I don't want to leave you hanging for too long about what happens next.

John had been doing real damage to the breakfast cart, partaking a healthy meal of eggs, sausage and toast -- with more jam than he knew was good for him -- and washing it all down with copious amounts of tea. Paul, meanwhile was still refusing to eat, fortifying himself with nothing but one cigarette after another.

Thus, both men dealt with their anxieties in characteristic fashion, and there was something reassuring in that. As much as John wished Paul would eat, he knew it simply wasn’t in the lad to do so when he was edgy, whereas John often had to consciously pull himself away from the trough when he was too wound up.

Still, tension radiated off both men as they nervously anticipated the arrival of their bandmates, whose reactions to everything they were about to hear could not be predicted. Openly, Lennon and McCartney had encouraged each other to hope for the best, but privately – in ways they dared not articulate -- both men had their doubts. Liverpool lads, no matter how well-traveled, were still Liverpool lads, and George, especially, could either go off like a firecracker over Paul, or go silent and full of fury-fed doubt.

Having originally liked the idea of finally confessing himself and Paul as being long-time lovers, John had been surprised at his own ready acceptance when Dawson suggested that they leave that information, for another day. Maybe it _was_ too much to throw at the band all at once. Although it would be hard, he knew, to just throw himself back into the closet while Paul so clearly needed not just John’s friendship but his arms, too.

He was watching Paul smoke and pondering all of that, wishing to himself that the world were different -- thinking he would desire nothing better than to be able to tend to Paul openly, as the one who was most entitled to do so -- when a faint knock came to the door. He saw Paul grip the arm of his chair, knuckles white. 

Dawson opened it with caution and then gathered the photo packet, stepping outside with it.

Seizing an opportunity while they were alone, John crossed over to Paul, kneeling before him. “Look at me, love,” he said, taking Paul’s face firmly in his hands. Paul, still entertaining a shame cycle, raised his eyes. “Before they get here, I just want one more chance to do this freely,” he said. With that, he leaned in, planting a sound kiss on Paul’s forehead, then another on his cheek. Finally, after hesitating for the faintest instant, he placed his lips -- briefly and chastely, but fully -- upon Paul’s before pulling back to look at his partner squarely.

“I love you, Paul. You know that don’t you?”

Paul sighed, holding his gaze, his expression full of a gratitude he dared not speak. He took John’s hand from his cheek and brought it to his lips, kissing Lennon’s palm in a silent acknowledgement that was deeply eloquent in its intimacy. “Please, don’t leave me,” he whispered.

John winced to hear it. Those words had, for so long been the unsung lyrics of his own whole life. “Don’t leave me; please stay.” They were words he’d said to Paul so often over the course of their relationship, from [their teenaged years](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/45597766) to just a few weeks earlier, when they’d [had a tough row during a rainy drive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20699831/chapters/49169483). John knew the utter fear and helplessness that lay behind those words whenever he spoke them. To hear such a plea coming from Paul’s lips felt like an unspeakable travesty, of the world tilting all wrong and making no sense. He carded his fingers through his lover’s messy, uncombed hair, and let the back of his fingertips soothe him as he skimmed that beautiful Macca jawline. “I would never leave you, darling. If you know nothing else in your life, you can lay your fortunes down on that line.” He forced a tense smile at Paul. “I may make you wish I’d go away, sometimes, but I will never leave you. Who else would have me?”

Paul leaned into his caress for a moment, closing his eyes, and simply letting himself be loved.

They were still like that when Dawson walked back in, clearing his throat with some exaggeration.

“Alright, cop,” John announced as he pulled away and stood up, keeping his hold on Paul’s hand. “You caught us. We were bein’ all queer and stuff. Haul us into chokey if you must, but we ain’t comin’ quietly.”

“You’re talkin’ to the wrong copper,” Dawson chuckled softly. “I’m not afraid of either of you being in love. That, by the way,” he pointed to the door, “was a gentleman visiting here in service to the crown. They are now in possession of the pictures and the note. We may take it as a very good sign that they have responded in less than an hour to Mr. Epstein’s call. I suspect Herself is not amused to have one of her newly honored boys abused in such fashion.”

“Oh, Christ,” Paul murmured, “d’ye think _she_ even knows?”

“Her Majesty’s a pretty nice girl,” John smirked at him. “I expect you can trust her, love. She doesn’t have a lot to say.”

“Aye, and she’s not a girl who misses much,” Dawson agreed.

Paul shook his head. “You two are having entirely too much fun right now. And I think I need a nap. John, help?”

The lad looked drained. It was significant, the detective thought, that McCartney could contemplate sleep when he was so clearly anxious for his bandmate’s arrival. Significant, too, that he hadn’t even attempted to rise on his own steam, but sought out John’s full-bodied assistance, instead. He couldn’t decide whether all that significance meant something good – like a willingness to finally see to himself, and permit his lover to be of help – or something bad, like a foretaste of a physical breakdown.

Sometimes Dawson wished he was a better man of prayer than he had ever tried to be.

It was another forty-five minutes before Brian Epstein finally tapped at the door and made his way inside with George and Ritchie in tow, all of them bearing gifts: sandwiches, soda, cups of hot coffee, cakes and sweets. “George’s idea,” Brian explained as he introduced the lads to the house detective. “He insisted.”

“Well you’ve been so bleedin’ secretive! I didn’t know if we were going to be encamped a few days here with these other two, like a quarantine,” George grumbled. “And my mum always taught me to keep food about.”

“Aye, blame your mum, you glutton,” Ritchie nudged him, placing a cakebox on a table. “I notice you only worried about food, not clothes.”

Both of them shut up as they caught sight of Paul, soundly asleep under covers -- his face unshaven and sporting days-old bruises going from green to yellow -- and John, who had been lightly dozing beside his partner, and who quickly jumped up to greet them in a manner both sleep-addled and overly effusive. He hugged George and then Ritchie, and couldn’t help exclaiming over the sweets, which he immediately opened and shoved into his mouth.

“Gentlemen, in other circumstances I would say I am very glad to meet you, but today, I’m afraid none of us will be glad for this get-together.” The detective urged the men to have seat and then introduced himself, detailing his background. Finishing his review, which seemed only to confuse the new arrivals, he looked at John.

“Mr. McCartney will want to be awake, now,” he told him.

“Nay, let him sleep, Dawson. He’s knackered.”

Dawson shot him a look. “I promised him he’d be able to speak if he wished to. So, if you please, sir.”

It was only the truth he’d spoken, but the older man also wanted to observe Paul’s condition and get a sense of how he was. John made a face but obeyed, heading over to Macca and gently shaking him.

“Babe,” they heard him say gently, “Paul, wake up. The lads are here.”

It took another shake before Paul made an indeterminate noise and blinked awake, rubbing his face. “Can I have water,” he choked out.

“Of course, love.” His partner went to fetch it while Paul stared dully across the room at his mates. They returned his gaze with quizzical expressions and then looked at each other with high eyebrows and mutual shrugs.

“Hey, Paul,” Ritchie offered tentatively, “You alright?”

“S’wrong with your eye,” George chimed in with a deep frown.

Before he could answer John had returned, and Paul busied himself with emptying the entire tumbler before catching his breath. “Just too many covers.” He raised an arm to John, who wordlessly helped him rise, supporting his weight as Paul – with very obvious difficulty – took a few steps toward the group and then shook his head, finally managing to settle himself on the edge of the bed with a grimace he could not restrain.

George and Ringo shared another frown between them.

“I’ll just sit here,” Paul decided, his voice still sounding rough and breathy. “Thank you for comin’ lads. Brian, thank you, for everything.” He nodded in their directions, remaining purposely distanced from them. “Mr. Dawson, you can…go on, then.”

Dawson had watched the younger man with narrowed eyes, only looking away once John took a seat on the bed beside him, offering Paul a piece of chocolate, which was refused. With a sigh and a bare shake of his head, he turned to the others.

“I have been asked to fill you in on events of the last two days during which, we understand, you’ve been looking for Messers McCartney and Lennon.”

“Aye, we’ve been wondering if we’d missed a good party, after all, and they had a roomful of birds they weren’t sharing,” George offered. “But…that wouldn’t be the case, then?”

“It would not,” Dawson acknowledged. Taking out his notebook, the big man began to pace back and forth before them as he proceeded to tell the two men everything Paul wanted them to know, laying it all out succinctly, and holding back what was not essential for them to hear about. "Don't tell 'em about the comb handle," Paul had pled. "Please, I couldn't..." And Dawson had, of course, agreed, saying only to George and Ringo, "I will spare you the details of the specific savagery dealt to Mr. McCartney, except to say that he was assaulted in brutal and quite cruel fashion by men with no humanity in them."

Paul kept his head down throughout the entire recitation, not raising it at the gasps of horror his mates had been unable to hold back, not looking up at Ritchie’s soft moan, “Paulie, no, oh no, son,” but only silently reaching for John’s hand. He sighed hugely to hear George let out a blasphemous curse and throw something, wondering if his childhood pal – always something of a rounder -- was blaming him for not fighting back enough, and had to gulp back an urge to cry.

Eventually, he released John from his grip and brought his arms around his shoulders in a hard self-embrace that all of his bandmates recognized. It meant that he was exhausted, anxious and feeling overwhelmed. They sent looks his way throughout Dawson’s telling. Looks of sympathy, of support, of pain and of love.

But Macca never saw them, never raised his head, never sought out their reactions, or tried to meet their eyes, while John sat like an attentive owl beside him, not moving except to stroke the lad’s back in continuous little circles.

At the mention of photographs, Paul began to visibly tremble. Ringo let out a mirthless, hard bark of a laugh. “And I didn’t think it could get worse. Paulie,” he offered his silent, sphinxlike friend, “lad, I’m _so sorry_ this happened.” Wanting to walk over to his friend, but getting no sense that he’d be welcomed, he instead hid is face, propping his head up with his elbows on his knees, and staring helplessly at the carpeting. “Fuckers,” he muttered.

George, “the quiet one” remained quiet, his eyes as hard and clear as diamonds and fixed on John and Paul with an unreadable expression.

Dawson asked Paul if there was anything he would like to say, but Macca, still balled up and shuddering, merely shook his head ‘no’.

“Mr. Lennon, is there anything you would like to add,” Dawson asked, turning toward John.

After a glance at Paul, so silent and closed in on himself, Lennon cleared his throat and spoke. “As far as I’m concerned, this changes nothing,” he said, too loudly, and sounding much too defenseive. “If it changes anything for the two of you, you can find another band to work with.”

Both George and Ringo leapt up at his words, taking fast offense. George nearly charged his bandmate. “That’s the first thing you have to say to us,” he hollered. “You keep us in the dark for two days and then talk to us like that? _Fuck you_ , John, and where the hell were you while Paulie was bein’…bein’… like that! How could you let his happen? And then to talk to us like that,” he finished furiously, seeming to choke on his own anger.

Ringo, his blue eyes showing a plain fury, finished the thought, “If we’d want to leave the group it wouldn’t be for anything that’s happened to Macca, son, but for _you_ not lookin’ after him. And for treating us like we’re the hired help and don’t have a stake in lovin’ him. When he didn’t show up why weren’t you lookin’ for him?”

“He has a name,” was John’s weakling response. Feeling completely at a loss, he permitted his defenses to find purchase in expressing a passive indignity for Paul’s sake, “don’t talk about him like he’s not right here.”

He knew he’d just made a balls of it all. He’d never meant to start off by making some kind of loyalty demand of the band. He’d just felt put on the spot by Dawson who, had only been courteous. _Didn’t really have to say anything_ , he thought. _Should have kept my mouth shut, like Paulie._

The truth was, George and Ritchie’s accusations had hit him square in the chest, where his own doubts and self-recriminations had been echoing the same questions, on and off, since Macca had first disappeared. Hearing the words of blame, the charges of inattention and selfishness brought by his own mates, was blistering to John. He felt something crumble inside himself. An old familiar taunt rose within him as though it had only been waiting behind a curtain for its cue. _He has a name? Did you say that?_ _You should leave. You have nothing to offer, here. You left Paul helpless._

“Shut up,” John said loudly, to no one.

“This is not helpful,” Dawson began, causing George to turn on him, ready to fight, demanding to know why a hotel detective, and not the police, was “running this half-assed shitshow.”

“Christ, stop. Stop it.” Paul’s voice rose from his self-cocooned depths. “Lads, _please_.” He opened his eyes, seeming to wipe a tear from his cheek before depositing a hand on John’s thigh and doing that strange petting motion he’d first used the night of the attack, staring at nothing while running his hand lightly, again and again, over his partner’s muscle, as though he were petting a cat. “This is not John’s fault,” he choked out. “It’s not Eppy’s fault or Mr. Dawson’s.” He finally trained his gaze on the rest of the men in the room. “If anyone is to blame, I am. But…I’m not sure that’s true, either, isn’t that so, Mr. Dawson?”

“Indeed, my lad,” the big man said, studying Paul’s movements with curiosity. “The blame rests fully on the depraved men who did this, and nowhere else.”

Ringo came to stand before Paul, trying to catch his gaze. “Paul,” he started. “This affects the whole band, I mean, practically speaking it does.”

Paul had dipped his head again, so Ringo was talking to the lad’s double cowlick, so familiar to him from the perch of his drumkit that he’d come to think of them as Paul’s “eyes on the back of his head, you know?” Eyes that, he would joke, explained how McCartney always seemed to know everything that was happening around them during those frenzied thirty-minute sets they performed nightly, and sometimes twice in a day.

Now, his eyes filled with an eloquent sadness, he reached out a hand, as though to touch the younger man’s shoulder, before pulling back with uncertainty. “But band aside, this is awful for you, in a way it can never be for the rest of us. But you’re not alone, alright? Don’t think we’re goin’ anywhere.” He squatted down on his haunches to look up at Paul’s face. “All we want to know is what we can do for you. Name what you need, love, and we’ll have it for you. Maybe we can all go away together for a while, eh? What do you think?”

Paul placed his other hand on Ringo’s shoulder, stroking him there. “To go away,” he echoed, saying no more, but only moving his warm hands over both of his friends in soft, skimming strokes. The drummer looked at John, his eyes huge with the question, _is he okay_?

John, deeply biting his lip, his eyes still wet from the ache of his two mate’s accusation, could only shrug.

George, meanwhile, had been pacing the room, mumbling quietly to Brian, and – for reasons best known to himself – shooting daggers toward Dawson with his eyes, as though the older man was somehow at fault. “Who else knows,” he asked. “What about Jane? What about his old man?”

“No one else knows,” Eppy answered. “We haven’t even discussed that with Paul yet. I’m not sure how he wants to tell them, or even if he wants to.”

“Da,” Paul said, suddenly turning to look at John. “I want to see my dad,” he said softly. “I need to. I don’t know what to do about Jane, but I need to see da.”

“Well, then we’ll take you to him,” Ringo said immediately, before John could so much as clear his throat. “We’ll all go up North with you, eh? Take a roadtrip together, like old times. Be there for you when you see him.”

It was so like Ritchie to offer such full-on and selfless support, but John instantly knocked him down a peg, as though annoyed – or jealous -- that he’d not said it first. “Not sure he could endure a long drive just now,” he told Ringo with a huff. “Poor lad can barely sit.”

“Now who's talking about him as though he’s not there,” George started, pausing in his paces in order to kick at a wall, leaving a mark. “We get him some cushions and drive him up to Wirral, that’s all.”

“He’d have no privacy, there,” John raised his voice at him, “Angela’s always hangin’ in the background and snoopin’ around, isn’t she?”

“John may have a point,” Brian said, daring George’s disapproval, which came immediately.

“Aye, well you’d say that, wouldn’t you, if John said it first.”

Dawson watched as the room descended into a kind of scouser anarchy, with three Beatles getting into each other’s faces and arguing… _well_ , he thought, _arguing quite stupidly, which is what people do when they are deeply upset – they lash out at each other, because they feel helpless._ He decided to read room dynamic as confused, displaced expression of anger and esteem on behalf of their injured member, rather than mere disfunction. He casually wondered who would throw the first punch.

With all eyes off him, Paul rose unsteadily from the bed and began to make his crouched, unsteady way to the bathroom, only attracting attention when the door clicked closed after him, and the lock turned.

John left off his argument and was there instantly. “Paul? Baby, you alright?”

 _Baby,_ George frowned furiously. “ _Baby?” He’s treating him like an infant, now?_ Lennon had said it, he thought after a minute, _the way I’d say it to Patti._ He shook his dark hair at the thought. _Paul must really be hurting, and John’s being John._

“I’m fine,” Paul answered, sounding stronger than he’d looked. “Just give me a minute, aye?”

“ _One minute_ ,” John insisted in a firm voice, leaning his head against the door.

“Can’t you even leave the lad alone while he’s in the loo?”

Lennon gave George a dangerous looking glare. “Watch out, Geo.”

George gave him one right back. “Ye follow him like a shadow, you know. No wonder the lad’s got no peace. You’d crawl up his ass if you could--”

“That’s it,” John exploded, drawing a fist on his mate and grazing his chin.

“Oh, come ‘head ye fud,” George urged, motioning in with his hands. “You’ve needed a beating since at least his twenty-first birthday, yeah.” He shot forward, going for Lennon’s head with his own before Dawson, who had four inches and a couple of stone on any of them, came in between. “That’s enough of that, lads. You’ll accomplish nothing by fighting among yourselves.”

Ritchie was dragging George away. “Come on, Geo, he’s right. It’s no good, havin' at each other like this.”

Brian took one of George’s arms as well, and led him to the other side of the room, speaking quietly. “Instead of all this roughhousing, I wonder if you two might want to go bring the old man down here,” he began, hoping to distract them.

“Paul?” John was calling through the door, his back to the three of them. “Minute’s up. Time to come out.”

He heard a sound like a gasp. “Yeah. Half a mo’, then. Almost finished.” Another gasp. “I told you I didn’t want to eat anything…” Paul’s voice trailed off weakly.

John raised his eyebrows in understanding. “Oh…” he said. “I’m sorry, love. I’ll be just here, then. If you need anything.” He cast an embarrassed glance at Dawson. “How was I to know,” he shrugged helplessly.

“I’m sure this is painful and unpleasant for him,” the detective nodded. “You’re right to stay near.”

Lennon leaned back against the bathroom door, his body arched, looking for all the world like a teenager pining away. “Paul?” he asked in a quiet voice. “Talk to me, baby.” He rolled his head side to side, looking up at the ceiling. “Remember that time when we were kids, up at the Gambier Terrace? There was just the one bathroom and Cyn was pissin’ off the rest of the house because she was plugged up and stuck in the loo for over an hour?”

He took Paul’s soft moan as an affirmative. “You remember how you sat outside the door, telling her jokes and singing to her?”

John turned to the rest of the room, a small smile playing at his lips as he shared the memory. “People were pounding on the door and Cyn was embarrassed. She was having one of those times where you can’t push it out but you can’t keep it in, either, and with people yelling for her to finish, she couldn’t get the job done, you know. She was panicking. Paulie thought if he distracted her, got her mind off herself, it would help, so he…” He couldn’t help a chuckle as he met Dawson’s eyes. “He kept everyone else away and then did all of his weird voices at her, and that Jerry Lewis thing, you know, ‘ _hey, laaaydeee, nice lady, can you push your caca out, nice lady_?’”

Even George stopped fuming enough to smile at the scene as John described it. That was the Paul he knew and loved-- helpful, funny, willing to be stupid because he was so smart.

“He played my guitar and did the cheesiest Spanish accent you’ve ever heard,” he told the detective, who was leaning against the wall, enjoying the story. “And then he sang _Besame Mucho,_ with this really queer voice and the whole ‘cha-cha boom’ bit and finally she was laughing so hard she was able to get herself all sorted out.”

By now the three Beatles were chuckling together, their recent furors cut down to size by the gift of memory. “We should sing it, now, maybe,” Ringo said.

“Paulie,” John called through the door, liking that idea. “We’re gonna sing for you,” he announced. “Okay, _nice laddie_?”

“Christ, John…” he heard Paul’s strangled response.

John smiled and began to croon in an campy, oily voice. “ _Besame, besame mucho…each time I bring you a kiss, I hear music divine_.

He looked over at Geo. “C’mon, the lad’s sufferin’ through a shit, give a hand, then. _So, besame, besame mucho…_ ”

George, shaking his head in disbelief at their situation, nevertheless moved closer with Ringo, and brought a harmony. _“I love you forever, so say that you’ll always be mine.”_

All three of them shoved out their hips by sheer habit singing, _“Cha-cha BOOM!”_

The lads grew bolder in the second verse, singing through the door in solidarity with what they imagined Macca to be going through, _“each little dream would take wings and my life would be through…”_

At the sound of a flush, they gave out a playful huzzah, shouting another spontaneous “ _Cha-cha-BOOM!_ ” and for the first time John began to think that, minor tussle aside, the boys would be alright.

Then they heard a groan, as though Paul was leaning on the other side of the door.

“Macca?” John asked. “You comin’ out? Alright, love?”

“No,” Paul answered through a moan.

The mood instantly collapsed. “I’m comin’ in then.” He rattled the door handle. “Why’d you lock the feckin’ door, babe?”

“Knock it down, then” George said, losing his grin. “He sounds like he’s dyin’.”

“No, he’s right there, behind it," Ringo warned. "You don’t knock it down when he’s on it, or you'll take him out.”

“Gentlemen,” Dawson moved John gently out of the way. “Mr. McCartney,” he called, his voice firm but his face full of concern. “Paul… it’s Dawson.”

“Yeah,” came a groan.

“Are you able to unlock the door and turn the handle?”

A stretch of silence came, and then, “I don’t know.”

“Knock it down,” George repeated.

Dawson gave him a quelling look as he brought out a skeleton key and inserted it. “House detective,” he reminded the group before addressing Paul again. “Stand away from the door, son. I’m going to open it.”

“ _Bleedin_ ’ _…_ ” McCartney’s voice was barely audible. Dawson opened the door, quickly grabbing around as he stepped in. Two seconds later he emerged with Paul in his arms, barely on his feet and ghastly white. The circles under his eyes, against that pallor, made him look deathly ill.

“He’s hemorrhaging,” Dawson said between gritted teeth, “and he’s hot as hell. Fever. Infection. Call an ambulance.”

“I’ve my car,” Brian offered. “It might be better not to –”

“Mr. Epstein, he could die. Call down to the front desk this instant and tell them we need an ambulance. Tell them someone’s hit their head in the bathroom and has gone bloody and needs immediate transport. We can’t bloody well walk him out of here like this,” he muttered under his breath.

Dawson surrendered Paul’s limp body to John and George, who quickly laid him on the bed. “Paul? Paul,” Lennon was choking out the name, roughly rubbing one of his lover’s wrists, trying to bring some warmth to hands that mere minutes earlier had felt almost hot as they’d stroked him and Ritchie. “Oh, baby, no. Why didn’t you…tell me…Baby, come on, sweet, don’t do this to me…”

“Give a blanket,” Ritchie urged, “He could go into shock.”

George grabbed one and covered Paul, barely noticing how John hovered over him, or the love words he was murmuring into his partner’s ear.

Returning from the bathroom, Dawson slopped a dark handful of blood on to Macca’s head as the lads about him gasped. “There is _a head injury_ ,” he repeated in an insistent but steady voice to Brian, even as the manager was speaking on the phone. “There is a serious head injury and blood everywhere. This is beyond urgent.”

When the detective moved back to the sink to wash his hands, Ritchie dared to peek in behind him and then blanched, stepping back, grabbing the door frame to keep from reeling.

There really was blood.

And it was everywhere.


	16. "Whatever part of him is still with us..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There are reports, tonight, that Beatle Paul McCartney lies near death in a local hospital..." Paul is gravely ill. Too ill, in fact, for the surgery he so badly needs. So ill that a doctor wonders if they want to call a priest. Here is a day in the life of three Beatles who fear they are about to lose their fourth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for continuing to read this story and for all of your encouragement. I wanted in this chapter to make us feel like we're there, in the hospital with John, George and Ringo. I hope you like it. Next chapter, we'll see Jim McCartney show up, and perhaps Jane. And Mimi will make an appearance, as well. Mime, don't forget, [secretly loves Paul very much](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/46704061), although she will rarely admit it.

Every time he thought of it, the memory seemed to pour out as slowly as molasses for John Lennon, as though the minutes dragged into hours and every word, every thought, every action had been pulled through a vat of something so thick, viscous and airless that a rescue seemed unlikely, as though survivability would not be possible.

He couldn’t shake the image. Paul on the bed, eyes half closed, staring at the hotel room’s ceiling, completely unresponsive. He said nothing, saw nothing, never turning his head while all about him his mates were exclaiming, shouting, rubbing, covering.

He’d just _lain_ there, white and bleeding, sweaty and cold and hot, and growing paler by the minute.

John had been certain he was going to lose his soulmate in that moment -- certain he, too, was about to die -- that his own heart would simply shatter in its chest if Paul died in front of him. _Lennon and McCartney dead. Bury us together and walk away. Let us rest in peace, and amen._

As drawn out as it all seemed, he knew the ambulance had to have been very fast, very timely, because Paul was still alive. So colorless, his breath so shallow, but he was _there_ \-- even if his hand lay in John’s motionless, unresponsive to the constant rubbing and squeezing it was being subjected to. And they were just blocks away from the hospital. _Please God, let that mean Paul will live._

There were going to be headlines, he knew it.

Brian had done his best. When calling down for help their manager had enough presence of mind to ask that the ambulance be directed around back of the hotel, near the service elevators that had always precipitated a fast and unseen Beatles exit.

But it didn’t matter. There was nothing like an ambulance for drawing attention exactly where you don’t want it; those “newspaper taxis” as John always called them, meant curious eyes, sharp noses, people ready to take a snap and tell a newspaper what they’ve’ seen, and John had no doubt that someone, somewhere had gotten off a few shots of Paul McCartney, unconscious, blood saturating a head bandage, being loaded up and hurried to hospital. A shot of a weeping Lennon, climbing in after him – he’d not been able to stop his tears at the sight of Paul like that – pushed about, having no control over his circumstances. _He would hate this so much if he could see it_ , had been his mad thought. 

He looked over to Dawson who was writing notes in his pad while snatching glimpses of Macca or eavesdropping on the emergency personnel’s dialogues, which were incomprehensible to John. “What do you think?” he asked him.

Dawson sighed as he underlined something he’d just written. “Before this crew came, Mr. Lennon, I’d managed to call down to the concierge and tell them no one was to go into that room.” He gave Lennon a sharp look. “I don’t want to see any photographs being floated about in the tabloids, of that bloody floor. I don’t want to learn someone on staff has taken a few souvenirs from what was left behind, there. I’m just reminding myself to follow up on that.”

“Fuck that, I meant about Paul,” John said, wiping eyes that were pleading hard with the detective to give him the right answer. “Do you think he’ll be alright?”

Dawson’s efficient voice went low as he avoided that look. “Let us hope so. He’s lost a deal of blood, and if he falls into shock…”

There was no point in finishing the sentence. Instead, he laid a beefy hand on John’s shoulder as he felt them swerving into hospital grounds. “There is a long road ahead of us, son. But now, be ready. Chances are good that _someone_ who saw _something_ as we left the hotel has called someone _else_ , and this is the nearest hospital…so stands to reason there might be a reporter or fans, there. Just keep your eyes on Paul; keep holding his hand. Whatever part of him is still with us will know you’re there.”

The detective had been correct. Bad news travels fast, and as they were rushed into the emergency area, John could hear fans screaming for Paul, a reporter’s voice calling out a question, but that all went away in mere seconds as the doors closed behind them.

Brian had arrived quickly after, bringing George and Ritchie. Dawson – whose career-cop presence meant no one actually questioned who he was, had loudly and commandingly reminded the medical staff present that any leaks would be easily traced to them. He asked for and was instantly shown to a phone, where he busied himself making one call after another.

Not for the first time over these wretched days had John given thanks for the presence of John Dawson, flung so haphazardly into their lives.

At that moment, though, all he wanted was to hear from the doctors – to know that Paul would live. He stood against the wall, in a room the band had been pushed into on Brian’s request – a records room, by the looks of it. George, unable to stand any longer, had slid to the floor, where he was quietly sobbing. Ringo was at his side, speaking softly to him, one arm around his shoulders.

 _Lord_ , Lennon prayed helplessly in his isolation, _I don’t know if you’re there or what to say. Save him. God, save him_. Brian offered him a cigarette, and they smoked in silence, both with shaking hands.

Nearly a half hour passed before a doctor joined them, followed instantly by Dawson. The Beatles fell on the small, neat-looking man in the spotless white jacket, surrounding him and barking out questions before he could say a word. He held up his hands.

“Gentlemen, _please_ ,” he insisted. “I know you are worried and that you want answers, but right now I can only tell you that your friend is in very grave condition, and we are going to do all we can.”

“Will he be alright,” George’s voice cracked. “Can you tell us that?”

The doctor, a middle-aged man wearing glasses and a deep frown, sighed as though he was forcing patience on himself. “That young man has been terribly brutalized, and he is now very ill, do you understand? He would be in much better shape had we seen him immediately after he was assaulted.”

“We tried,” John offered, his voice trailing off. “He wouldn’t…”

“It’s true,” Dawson stepped in. “I urged him several times to have a doctor, but he refused to hear it.”

“Well, excuse me, whoever you are, but a man your size should have dragged him to it.” The doctor was pulling no punches. “I’m sorry to be blunt, but you have no idea what we’re facing in these circumstances.”

“I assure you, I do, sir,” the copper bristled and John, ever observant, noted the fists appearing at the larger man’s side, “but carrying Mr. McCartney out of a hotel while he resisted was not a feasible option.”

“Well then you should have done better by him, otherwise,” came the tightly voiced scolding, “and brought a doctor in to him, even if he resisted. Infection has set in and there is an abscess within the rectal wall that, should it burst, could turn him septic and kill him within hours. It will need to be addressed surgically, along with other fissures and wounds.”

His face softened a little as he looked at the stunned faces before him and realized how raw his words had been. “Men, I must be plain with you…I cannot promise any sort of good outcome at this moment. But we will do everything within our power.”

“So, you’re going to operate on him, now?” Ritchie piped up as both George and John went pale, the younger becoming unsteady on his feet.

“I wish we could.” The doctor had noticed George and shook his head. “Look, my office is just a few doors down. Come with me, and we can speak more comfortably, there.”

They followed him down the hall and John helped George into a seat, shoving his head between his legs while the doctor sat behind his desk.

“Mr. Starr, is it?” Ringo nodded. “I am Doctor Richmond, by the way. Sir, you must realize that operating on anyone while there is infection is dangerous. In this young man’s case, given the loss of blood and his weakened condition, immediate surgery would be reckless in the extreme. As serious as his bleeding is, we have ways to address that. But it is imperative that we get control of the infection. To that end, we have already begun infusing him with a dose of penicillin that is so high it is akin to dropping a bomb onto a progressing enemy. Whether it can stop a further advance, and set things into retreat…” It was anyone’s guess, read the unspoken subtext.

The doctor poured out a glass of water and motioned that it be given to George, who was clearly still struggling to pull himself together. “I’ve also ordered an herbal balm to be applied topically every few hours. That should complement the antibiotic and increase healing where he is abscessed. It should soothe the area of injury as well.”

“Herbs,” John’s head went up. “Like garlic?” He was remembering some years back, when Paul had been beaten and bloodied in Liverpool and [his Auntie Jin had smeared an aromatic home remedy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/46816387) of herbs all over him. “Celtic witchery,” Paul had called it, though it had seemed to help. “Wouldn’t that be very strong stuff when he’s so weak? Won’t garlic bust the abscess?”

The doctor seemed impressed at Lennon’s remark. _Oh, yes_ , his tone seemed to say, _that’s the ‘smart one’_. “You are quite right about the abscess, but there are several different herbal compounds we use, some milder than others.”

“But _when_ will you do the surgery,” George finally raised his head, fear showing plainly in his voice, and sounding a lot like impatience. “He’ll not get better without it, right?”

“When we have managed to stabilize him and have taken some control over the infection,” the doctor replied, showing a tinge of impatience, himself. “Depending on how Mr. McCartney responds to the infusion, that could be anywhere from twelve hours to two days.”

“But, he could bleed to death by then!” Ringo objected.

“I’m afraid it is the best we can do. We have managed to staunch the bleeding a bit, although – again – with the abscess that’s a tricky business. If we are too aggressive in our efforts we risk the pus sac breaking and the bacteria entering his blood stream.”

“That would be serious, yes?” Eppy’s frown suggested he already knew the answer, but he asked anyway.

Taking a huge breath, the doctor looked directly at him. “In his present condition, sir, I am afraid it would likely finish him.”

He gave them a moment to process that grim acknowledgement, and then, “It would probably be good to call his family, at this time.”

Brian, his head down, his eyes focused on nothing, nodded. “I’ll telephone Jim and arrange for him to be met at the airport.”

“Also…” the doctor stood up and seemed to become fidgety, playing with a pen in his pocket, and then adjusting his glasses. “I don’t know if your friend is religious.”

“He’s _not--_ ” John began.

“He’s Catholic --” George said at the same time. “I mean…not much of one, but, you know…” From under his brows, he gave John an almost pleading look. “My mum would never forgive us if we didn’t call a priest, John. Get him the Last Rites and all, yeah?”

At the notion of his Paul actually needing Last Rites, John seemed to collapse. He fell against a wall, reluctantly nodding at the doctor to go ahead, as his face drained of color.

“There is a parish nearby” he heard as though from a distance. “I’ll have the nurses call.”

“ _Paulie, oh God…_ ” Ringo moaned, wiping his nose and then covering his eyes. George and John watched him try to hide his tears, while their own came to the surface. Brian, too, had his hands over his face.

Dawson, leaning into a corner, was surprisingly silent, ghostly pale. In truth, he looked destroyed – staring off with an expression both distant and aching, his eyes full of sadness.

“Speaking of stability,” the doctor said, taking control before emotions buried any sense of hope, “Mr. McCartney is already receiving his first unit of blood, and we will have to continue transfusions for some time and even beyond any surgery, should we reach that point. If you gentlemen would like to donate...”

“We’re the same blood type, aye,” John immediately began to roll up his sleeve. “We’re both AB plus. He can have it all.”

The older man managed a smile. “I’m afraid we can only take a bit under a pint, but yes, we’ll tap you – we’ll take a unit off each of you, actually, since he is what we call a ‘universal recipient’.

It was no sooner said than done – the band and Eppy, and even Dawson, had taken turns having their blood drawn and now – as they waited for any word on Paul, or any chance to see him – they were munching on biscuits and juice. All of them seemed to be shimmering with anxiety, but feeling that they’d at least done something to contribute to their friend’s well-being.

“You’d be interested to know,” Richmond told them later, his voice betraying just a trace of amusement, “nearly a dozen sisters have offered to donate a unit of blood once they’ve finished their shifts. I’ve never seen that happen before. Seems everyone wants to help.”

“Everyone wants to say they’ve got their blood running inside Paul McCartney’s veins and through his heart,” Ringo sneered. “But when can we see him?”

That was the question they kept asking, and no one would give an answer.

The band had been moved once more, into a currently unoccupied patient’s room, which at least shielded them from prying eyes. They took turns pacing or sitting on one of the two empty beds.

“Someone should call Jane,” Brian suggested.

No one volunteered.

“If I call anyone, I’m calling my mum,” George said. “She’ll light a candle for him, at least. Say some prayers. In fact…” George left the room, off in search of a phone.

“The earliest flight I could find for Jim will bring him into London this evening,” Brian said to no one in particular. “I wonder if I should pick him up, myself, explain it all to him on the way here…”

“That’s a wise idea,” Dawson had agreed. “Better than sending a car for him and having the old man worrying and full of questions. I could pick him up, if you like.”

John listened to the two older men as they talked logistics and found himself shuddering at the thought of facing Jim McCartney. _“How am I going to tell him his boy’s been…”_

It had been one of the first things he’d thought of, one of the first clear thoughts he’d expressed to Eppy on that horrible night Paul was left, like discarded rubbish, at their door. Old Jim had never liked Lennon. _How many milliseconds will it take him to blame this all on me_ , he thought. _And I deserve it. I am to blame._

“When when can we see him?”

He interrupted Brian in his discussion, wanting to take his mind off Jim’s arrival. “Can you ask if we can see him? He probably needs us!” _Or he might die all alone. Oh, Christ…_

“Let me ask,” Dawson offered, stepping out.

A few minutes later, the Head Matron -- a bulky woman with a decided chin and bright, snapping eyes that would brook no nonsense -- knocked at their door and motioned with her head for the group to follow. “I shouldn’t be doing this, and you can’t stay above a minute,” she said in a hushed tone. “But I know you must be anxious, and if you all say hello to him, just very quickly, it might do him a bit of good, poor lad.”

 _Whatever part of him is still with us will know you’re there_. John could hear Dawson saying it just hours earlier.

He felt George grab at his hand as they walked, and didn’t object. John understood; he was afraid, too. They wanted to see Paul, of course they did. But not like this. The anticipation of seeing him in bad shape…no one really wanted it.

“Do not touch him,” the matron warned as she pushed a curtain open enough to allow them to gather around the bed.

There was Paul, his face so white against his black fringe that his countenance almost seemed bright. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted, looking like an angel that had been sent to the shop for repair and turned into a beautiful machine, kept alive via tubing and electronics. None of the lads were cognizant of the catheter beneath the blanket, but they took in this passive presentation of Macca – always the liveliest and most restless of them all – and seemed to shiver together from the same chill. Both arms were immobilized, the left being fed blood, and the right taking in antibiotics that – _please God_ – might save his life.

“Paulie…” George let it escape in a whisper as he stared at his oldest friend. He sounded almost childlike as he turned to the nurse, his eyes nearly round with worry. “Is he going to die?”

“Not if we can help it,” she sounded almost motherly, “but he is very ill, son.”

At that moment a priest entered, removing his cap, and looked around. “Are they all here to assist?” he asked her in a surprised tone.

“They’re just leaving--” she began.

“I’d like to stay” interrupted George. “I’m Catholic. I can help with the prayers.”

“Me too, I’m Catholic,” John lied. “I can help too.” He looked at the matron, who was giving him a dubious look. “Please? We’ll stay out the way, and won’t touch him, but please? Let us stay?”

His face was so woebegone, she couldn’t say no. An experienced caregiver, she had privately judged that Paul McCartney – absenting a miracle – was very likely going to succumb to his infection and was wondering how her daughters were going to take the news. If he wasn’t going to make it, she reasoned, he might as well have his mates around him.

That was how George Harrison, a former altar boy who surprised himself at how readily he was able to make responses to prayers long abandoned, and John Lennon, a wholly disinterested product of the Church of England, assisted at a solemn rite they barely understood but managed to find, within its ritual and quiet certitude, some surprising measures of comfort.

“I’m Father Sean Flynn,” the priest, who looked not much older than Paul, introduced himself. That done, he nonchalantly kissed a thin purple stole and placed it around his neck – the sign that absolution for all sins would be bestowed in utter secrecy within this sacrament – and got down to business. John was struck by how casual the priest seemed about what he was about to do. As though it were an everyday thing to bring a sacrament to a dying Beatle; as though it were an everyday thing to see a young life dangling so precariously upon a precipice.

Pretending not to know – or maybe he really _didn’t_ know, John considered – the cleric asked “What is this young man’s name?”

“Paul…” George had to clear his throat to get it out.

“ _James_ Paul,” John corrected, suddenly finding his own voice sounding papery thin. He had [always loved saying Paul's full name](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611301).

“James Paul McCartney,” he repeated more firmly. _If he’s getting Last Rites, better get it all proper, so God knows who’s coming_ , he thought irreverently. He gave a minute hiss, then, despising himself as he realized he’d permitted the notion of Paul’s death to come into his head as something possible and imminent. _Fucking loser, you are_ , he cursed at himself and the ever-present taunter in his brain agreed. _You never deserved any part of Paul._

“Then, let us now pray the Lord for the healing of James Paul McCartney, or – if it be God’s will to take the lad unto himself – for abundant mercy to rain down upon him, removing from him all stain of sin, that he might enjoy the beatific vision.” Turning and giving his full attention to the gravely ill young man before him, he intoned _, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost…”_ George followed suit, with Lennon managing, as well.

John watched, fascinated, as the priest, dipping his thumb in a small container of blessed oil, used it to trace a cross on Paul’s forehead, and one on each of his palms, all while uttering prayers for “Your servant, James Paul. We anoint him with oil to speed your healing help...” He had gestured to John, who realized the priest wanted access to Paul’s feet. Lifting the sheet, he stood near and watched as both soles were similarly blessed before additional prayers went forth, with a sprinkling of Holy Water.

While George impressively responded to all of the prayers, John was silent, his full attention fixed on the pallid face of his Macca. He was remembering all those nights when, unable to sleep, he would find a different sort of rest by simply watching Paul in slumber, those light-filled eyes closed, lips slightly parted – although he never did snore, John realized. Angelic in repose, he had always thought. Paul was at all times beautiful, but while asleep he looked so youthful, his perfect features so sweetly innocent, that he seemed already to be only half a distance away from heaven.

Not that Paul was innocent, obviously. Still, as the priest made yet another gesture of blessing over Macca’s sleeping figure, John discovered that his deep contemplation of his lover’s face had brought him to the most relaxed place he had been in two days, perhaps in weeks, really. 

“Would you,” Father Flynn whispered to John, “kindly open his mouth just a little, for the _viaticum_?”

“The wha--” John stuttered, shaken from his reverie.

“ _Viaticum._ ” The priest repeated. “Call it food for the journey,” he explained.

“Oh!” Understanding dawned, and John went to Paul’s lips, delicately using two fingertips to part them a bit further. Flynn thanked him and then murmured additional prayers while using his own fingers to administer the merest drop of the Communion wine, and then the tiniest of crumbs of the Eucharistic Host, onto Paul’s tongue.

John frowned as the priest carefully stored the remainders away. “Will that be enough?”

“Oh, the tiniest bit of Christ is Christ entire,” he smiled. “Let’s finish, shall we?” With that he pronounced the concluding prayer, signed one more blessing over the patient and returned his oils to a pocket.

“Thank you, lads,” he said. “You were an enormous help, and I hope your mate James Paul quickly improves. You can ask your own Guardian Angels to pray for him too, you know – they remain before the throne of heaven, and that's a powerful spot. Now, I believe I have two more to see down here…”

As he pulled the curtain to make his exit, John couldn’t help asking. “Will this help him? Can he -- will he be _healed_?”

The priest turned back and looked at John for a moment, fully taking in the desperate hope behind the plea. “If God wills..."

Flynn paused, considering the distraught man before him, and realized that platitudes would be of no use to him, that this was a man who needed a solid answer. With the same maddeningly casual composure with which he had anointed Paul, he shrugged. "It’s a crazy thing, this sacrament,” he smiled slightly. “We may not ever see the exact result we hope for, but something always _does_ happen, even if we only realize it later. Some kind of healing, of body, or mind or spirit, always does come.”

With that, he closed the curtain and was gone. Mere seconds later, the Matron returned, signaling the two young men out with a jerk of her head. George, seeming more at peace than he had earlier, quietly obeyed. John, ever the renegade, pressed his lips together. “Can’t I stay, Mother?”

“I’ve already given you too much access--” she began, too startled to continue when she observed how quickly tears arose in his eyes, and how his throat seemed too tight to allow a swallow.

“Just one minute, please,” he pled in a ragged whisper. “He’s my partner, my best mate, my –" he shook his head, unable to get the words out, before finally managing to release the knot in his throat. “Sixty seconds and you can time me. I’m beggin’ you, Missus.”

With a set of her chin all at war with the sympathy in her eyes, she lowered her voice. “Sixty seconds, then, and I’ll drag you out by your ear if you--”

“I won’t--” John rushed her, hands up in surrender. “I promise, I won’t. I’ll leave just when you say, I swear! Thank you! Thank you!”

At last alone with his partner, John bent down, delicately stroking Paul’s face with the back of his fingers. “Paul,” he whispered into the shell of his ear. “It’s me, John. I’m here. They’re gonna make me leave your side in a minute, but I’ll still be here, Baby. Just outside. I won’t go anywhere”

He sniffled for a moment, wiping his nose on his sleeve, and then hot tears that had been threatening all day finally had their way, falling one after another, all out of his control. “Please don’t leave me,” he keened as quietly as he could manage. “My Macca…”

He pulled back, angrily wiping both of his eyes with his fingers, realizing how close he was to losing it with the matron just outside. He hated that he was wasting precious seconds crying when he had something so important to say. With another sniff and a shuddery exhale, he bent once more to Paul, his partner, his best mate, his love. “Baby, you know I love you. If you have to go…”

No.

_No._

He knew he should say the words, the generous words, the ones that said “I love you enough to let you go if you need to…” But he couldn’t do it. “I don’t want to lose you,” he sobbed quietly, aware that he was losing the battle with his running nose, and not caring. “Please stay. _My darling_ ,” he whispered, “ _please stay…_ ”

He was out of words, then, and was simply pressing his forehead to the pillow to be near Paul when he heard a small, sharp “snick” -- like a quick uptick of a breath. Just a little thing, but it felt like something good, like energy that had been missing even ten minutes before. “ _Good_ , baby,” he encouraged in a soft voice. He thought of something that might bring on even more good. “Your Da is coming. You hear me, Paul? We’re flyin’ him in for you, love. You’ve gotta stick around for Jim, aye? Baby?”

Expecting to hear the curtain move any second, John planted a soft kiss on Paul’s forehead, pushing aside his fringe. “I love you, James Paul McCartney,” he declared, managing to straighten up a mere moment before the matron made her appearance, her eyebrows pulled all the way up to her hairline, and the curtain held ajar.

He stepped out to find Brian there, grabbing his arm and hurrying him toward what turned out to be the nurse’s break room, where a crowd of sisters in white were gathered around a clunker of a television.

“Oh, no,” John said.

“Oh, yes. I’ll have to make a statement. It’s going to be everywhere.”

Images flashed on the screen. Paul, blanketed to his chin, a bandage on his head, lying on a gurney. John, looking utterly spooked, climbing into the ambulance. A file image of the Beatles, smiling as they held out their medals. A shot of the front of the hotel. Another of the hospital. The picture of Paul, bloody, again. And all the while a voice oozing sensationalism and faux concern.

“To repeat, it is rumored that Beatle Paul McCartney lies near death tonight, after falling in a hotel bath and taking a serious blow to the head. We are still awaiting official confirmation of this story but these images are evidence that something dreadful has happened to the twenty-three-year-old bass-player -- the second half of the wildly successful Lennon/McCartney songwriting partnership. Just how badly is Paul McCartney injured? Is there a possibility of brain damage? Will he be able to continue with the band? Will the so-called "cute" Beatle's looks looks be altered? We will have a live report next hour, and will hear from fans who are demanding to know the truth.”

“Christ, the press… a bunch of jackals,” John bit out.

“Fans are outside the hospital already,” Brian muttered into his ear. “They’re crying and blocking emergency vehicles. This is a mess.”

“Aye,” John agreed in the same low tone. “This might be the thousandth time I’ve thanked God, though, that Dawson put that blood on him.”

“I’m worried about it.” Brian turned to him. “John, I doubt we can keep the real story under wraps with so many people about. You know, anyone here could pull that curtain and take a snapshot…anyone can sell a story.”

Lennon pressed his hands to his temple, letting his fingers drag his hair.

“ _Stop,_ just stop Eppy,” he hissed, loud enough for several nurses to turn and stare.

“I need a phone,” he said aloud. “Can someone show me where I can make a phone call? In _private_?”


	17. 4 Times Paul Didn't Die. And One Time When...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five scenes from the day in progress, a day when John seeks out some grounding, Brian must face the press, John Dawson must begin to face his past (and perhaps, also, a clue), Jim McCartney must hear bad news, and Paul McCartney goes off looking for his mum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an unusual chapter that moves the things forward, a bit. Thank you for reading this far, and for all of the kind and thoughtful comments that tell me you guys are really thinking while you're reading. There is a lot going on in this one.

He kept dialing the number wrong. He’d get halfway through and suddenly go for a 5 instead of a 7, or he’d transpose the last two digits. On the third try, John simply slammed down the phone receiver, pressing his hands into the desk as he tried to stop shaking.

Something like this had happened to him once before, back when it seemed almost as if the band could not continue. George had been deported from Hamburg for being underage – a spiteful move by Bruno Koschmider, who’d been happy to break the law as long as the Beatles played at his stinking, fetid _Kaiserkeller_ but then had no problem breaking the band when they tried to move to a better venue. And then Paul and Pete had started that little fire with the rubber, over at the Bambi Kino and they were arrested and flown out of Hamburg within hours, as though they were violent undesirables, too dangerous even to be tolerated in a squalid place like the St. Pauli district -- or naïve idiots spirited out of the country at midnight, for their own good.

His own working papers had been withdrawn, so remaining in Hamburg made no sense of him, either, but John had stayed another ten days for no good reason, intruding on a flu-ridden Stu and his Astrid, drinking and getting into fights and making a general nuisance of himself, because he couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t handle the idea of going back to Liverpool with his tail between his legs – the band not triumphant but merely troubled, with the future before them looking like nothing but a bleak, repetitious loop of second and third class venues. The rest of his life looking like nothing he wanted to live. It had been too much for him to face. He needed to drink his way up to even trying.

Even then, after returning to Liverpool, he’d waited another week before finally calling Paul.

And when he’d found the nerve to do that, when he felt strong enough to face Macca and the others -- strong enough to start again -- he discovered he couldn’t dial the phone. Each time he would try to ring up Paul’s house, his fingers seemed to become too fat to work the rotary, his mind too benumbed with fear. He’d been a bastard to the band in those last days – leaving the others to remain at the foul Bambi Kino while living more comfortably with Stu and Astrid. He’d ignored Paul for no good reason, treating him almost like an afterthought to his own capricious ideas and jealousies. And now he had to try to pull them all together again, convince the others that he could be trusted to lead the band.

He’d heard George was already looking around for another opportunity. If Paul was looking to leave, too – and John had given him no good reason to stay – then it would be all over for him, and forever. And he knew it. He knew it so well that he kept misdialing, feeling disoriented and scared shitless.

And here he was, once again unable to dial a phone; once again feeling that brain-pulled sensation of not really understanding where he was or why he had to be here; once again feeling scared shitless. Scared to say the words that needed saying. Scared of breaking down, if the response on the other end of the line wasn’t the one he so badly needed. 

But he had to say the words. Had to tell her. Before she saw it on the telly.

The other side of the line – the other side of the world, it felt like – picked up after three rings. He rushed into her greeting. “Mimi!” he called out. “Mimi, it’s me…”

“John, it’s been weeks. I could have died waiting for you to check in with me.” Mimi greeted him with her customary harangue.

“Mimi--” John suddenly found he had no words. Simply hearing Mimi’s voice sent him into a different state, brought every vulnerability within him out to the fore. He felt naked in grief.

“ _Mimi_ \--” he could barely get it out.

“John, are you alright,” his aunt's voice danced just on the edge of scorn. "Are you in your cups, again? Had a few beers to work up the nerve to call your tough old auntie?”

She was teasing him. Then she hadn’t seen the telly, yet.

“Mimi, please, I have news. Bad news.”

“Well, what is it, John, is it Julian? Is the child ill?”

 _Julian!_ John felt himself immediately spiral down to a new level of guilt-fed misery. He’d barely spared a thought for his own wife and child these two days.

 _Two days_. Was it only two days since everything had changed? Was it still _today?_ The same today where Paul had managed to shower and dress himself by sheer force of will, and Ringo and George had only just been told? _That_ today? He felt like he’d lived two miserable lifetimes during this today. And had Cyn seen the telly? _Christ_ , everything was falling out of control.

He gripped the receiver hard enough to turn his knuckles white, because he was suddenly sweating so much it threatened to slip from his hands.

“No…no, Julian’s fine,” he answered, presuming to be right, since he’d not heard otherwise. “It’s…it’s _Paul_ , Mimi…”

“Paul?” Mimi’s voice tensed and rose up a tone. “Has something happened to Paul? What it is, John?”

“He’s…” John’s voice broke as he extended his arm, as though reaching out through time and space, for Mimi. His hand grasped only air and he collapsed, leaning fully on the desk, telephone to his ear, eyes opened, seeing nothing. “Mimi, he’s sick. He’s really, really sick.”

He started to weep openly, sounding watery and snot-ridden as he spoke the dreaded words. “He’s…I’m afraid he’s going to die. He’s going to die on me, Mimi…”

“Oh, John, my dear.” John didn’t even hear it.

“He’s suffering, Mimi, and he’s going to die. And I don’t know how…” John fell apart, barely able to speak over his full-on sobbing. “I don’t know how I’m going to live. Oh, Mimi,” he wailed. “ _How am I going to live if Macca dies_?”

Mimi let him cry, listened to him weep across the miles, forcing herself to hold back the burning questions. _Paul McCartney_ dying? That bold, maneuvering, [over-confident, bossy little piece of work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/45809215), dying so young? _Unthinkable!_ An unnatural thing in the natural world.

Her hands were suddenly shaking. Mimi – the unflappable Mimi Smith -- heard a quiver in her own voice as she tried to calm John down enough to make some sort of sense. “What has happened, John? Pull yourself together, son, and tell me what is going on? What is he sick with? Is it an influenza?”

‘He’s…” John swallowed hugely. “Mimi, it’s an infection. He’s a high fever, and…and he’s got to have surgery but they can’t do it because he’s too hot. And if it gets into his blood…and he’s bleeding, Mimi, he’s takin’ blood transfusions like he hasn’t a drop of his own left…”

“John…” Mimi started. “John, slow down. You’re incoherent. Why is Paul bleeding? What has _happened_ to him? Stop this crying,” she suddenly scolded as she reverted to type. “You sit up straight, now, and tell me what in God’s name is going on over there?”

So accustomed was he to obeying Mimi’s commands that her flinty adjuration worked like a hypnotic suggestion on John. Before he realized what he was doing, he had unsprawled himself from the desk and thrown his shoulders back, adjusting his seat. “Mimi…”

“Take a breath, child,” she counselled, softening her tone just. “I’m here. There you are, now. A good breath. Take another one.”

“Mimi…”

“Do you want me to come down to you,” she asked in a quiet voice.

“I…” After taking another deep breath, this time really emptying his lungs, he felt a little clearer. John grabbed around until he found a box of tissues. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything, Mimi. I don’t know what I want.”

“Well, you _do_ know what has happened to Paul, do you not?”

“Yes…”

She heard him blow his nose, loudly. “Ugh! Do that away from the phone, John!”

John closed his eyes and hugged the phone receiver with both hands, wishing he was hugging his aunt. He needed this, needed her. Just hearing Mimi and getting a dose of her salt, her steadfast, no-nonsense manner, was grounding him, giving him a familiar place in the world in which to stand, a place where there was a little air, a little room to breathe. He used some of that room to take a shuddery breath and let it out slowly.

“Mimi,” he began, mopping at his eyes. “I don’t say it enough. You are a champion. You’re tougher than the queen.”

“Well, that’s fine,” she answered, “but I’m still in the dark over here, and very worried. John, please… I must know what has happened to Paul.”

John bit his lip and patted around until he found his last cigarette. He managed one puff before settling down enough to speak clearly between sniffles. “You’re going to hear a report on the telly, tonight, and probably a statement from Brian, that Paul fell in the bath and broke his head... but none of that is true. It’s…” Another calming breath. “Mimi, it’s all so much worse than that…”

“Oh, John,” Mimi’s voice shook. “What is it? _What has happened to our darling boy?”_

***

 _Take no questions. Just say the words and get out, get away, before it becomes complicated_ , he told himself. Brian Epstein was standing behind a podium bearing the name of the hospital, trying to look calm as he adjusted the microphone with a shaking hand. Before him seemed to be all of Fleet Street, every reporter in the United Kingdom, all shouting questions at him.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you will permit me, I have a statement to make on the condition of Paul McC--”

“Where are the rest of the Beatles,” rang out one voice. “Why aren’t they with you?”

“Where’s _Lennon_ ,” called another.

A cacophony of voices followed and Brian stepped away from the mic, momentarily rattled. _Should I have asked the lads to join me_ , he wondered, immediately rejecting the idea. Not only would all three of them have objected to being mauled by the press and photographed at a time like this – and he didn’t even know where Lennon was, at the moment -- but it would draw out a task that he really wanted to be over as quickly as possible, with as few slips into reality as possible.

He hated lying.

He would have hated telling the truth even more, though.

Reapproaching the microphone, he found himself using a tactic that Paul McCartney himself had once recommended to him. “If you want the pack to stop howling, speak softly. They’ll shut up in order to hear.”

And so, Eppy simply began talking, very quietly, reading from the statement he had prepared just minutes earlier.

“Speak up!” Came the call.

“Can’t hear you!”

“Shut up, then, why don’t you and then maybe all of us can hear!”

Epstein deliberately cleared his throat. _Trust Macca to know,_ he thought, and began again.

“Earlier, today,” he announced, “Paul McCartney slipped in the bath and sustained a severe head injury. While emergency workers were quick to arrive, there has been a significant loss of blood, and at this moment, doctors are unable to answer with any certainty whether there will be lasting effects from this terrible accident. Right now, he is being stabilized with blood transfusions, and his condition is being closely monitored. Certainly, we are all praying for his quick recovery. That is, unfortunately, all of the information I can provide to you at this time.”

“Why was McCartney at the hotel to begin with,” called out a deep voice from the front.

Brian was taken aback for a moment, having not anticipated the question at all. He leaned back into the mic. “Paul and John Lennon had been attending a gathering of Her Majesties honorees a couple of evenings back…” he trailed off helplessly, until inspiration struck. “Having picked up a stomach ailment, which you all probably know he is quite prone to, Paul stayed over for a few days. Apparently he was still dizzy this morning, and he took a bad fall.”

“What about Lennon, why was he with him? Was he sick, too?”

 _Ignore that one_ , his gut told him, _that one’s trouble and_ _there are plenty of others coming_.

“Mr. Epstein”, a woman’s voice. “Is there any truth to the rumor that Paul McCartney has received Last Rites, and if so does that not suggest that his condition is much more serious than you are letting on?”

 _Un-ignorable. That needs a response_.

“Well, yes,” Eppy dawdled, trying to sound like he was brushing off a minor detail. “You might say that occurred out of an overabundance of caution, though. Due to blood loss, you know. A priest was available and did see him.”

His confirmation brought a general murmur between the members of the press, and Brian took that opportunity to get away from the pack. “I’m sorry, those are all the questions I can answer at this time. You will know more when we do,” he said, immediately striding out of the room.

“Who did it,” he stormed as he returned to the Emergency Room, surprising the whole staff with the fury behind his words. “Who told someone, who then blabbed to someone else, _about the priest_?”

***

John Dawson let himself into the hotel room, dragging a bellhop’s trolley behind him. All day his mind had been returning to it, worrying about opportunistic hotel staff helping themselves to something that might have been touched by a Beatle, or snapping pictures to sell to tabloids. Management had offered to see to it, to deliver everything to his rooms in residency, but no. He wanted to do it himself -- clear out everything that wasn’t perishable, and everything that no one else ever needed to see. Brian Epstein’s collection of books, and all his clothes as well as John’s and Paul’s. The bloody towel he’d shown to Paul, only this morning, hoping to convince him to have a doctor. All of George’s snacks and sweets, which that lad would probably need to sustain him through the night.

He stepped into the loo to collect the men’s grooming things – toothbrushes, after shave -- and decided to lend housekeeping a hand. _No one is paid enough to clean dried blood and clots_ , he thought. _Clots…so much blood…_

Sleeves rolled up, he bent to the task, using wet towels to clean up the greater portion of the mess and grunting a little with the effort. _Getting old_ , he thought to himself. _You’re no young man, anymore_.

The thought brought up images from the past that he had been successfully working to suppress over the past few day – himself as a young man, a young copper, keen for the job, sometimes too keen, so inculcated in police culture, police reasoning, police cynicism, that he’d not asked all of the questions he ought to have – the right questions, which sometimes were more about humanity than mere facts. He had not always said the right words, especially when it came to victims of rape.

Especially when it came to one such victim, one who certainly had deserved his best efforts, his best…well…the best of himself.

He’d said the right words to McCartney, he knew that. He’d had the right thoughts, brought the right message to his work, and taken together, it had all created an unusual sense of intimacy between the two men. “ _He’s more than just my partner, you know,_ ” Paul had volunteered of Lennon, those big dark eyes going wide with surprise at how readily he’d shared that with Dawson.

_But he’d felt comfortable enough to say it, to invite me into this most secret part of his life, because I’d said all the right things, for once..._

Yes, he’d done right by McCartney.

Then why was it his heart felt so heavy, right now? Why did he feel as though he was constantly on the verge of falling apart, of tumbling into tears, like a great gabby?

And why in the name of all that was holy was he constantly beating back an instinct to haul that dying young man into his arms and hold him against his broad chest in a crushing hug, and beg his forgiveness?

 _You know why_ , he scolded himself. _But you can never make it right_.

How remiss he had been twenty years earlier – much too slow to find his voice -- having had left far too much unsaid to one who had been every bit as courageous as Paul McCartney, but had never been told it.

He’d been too slow to demand a doctor that time, too. “ _A_ _man your size should have dragged him to it,_ ” the doctor had railed at him only this morning, and the words had been a blow to his conscience, and his psyche. It had run an old memory of failure into a new reality of…well…maybe failure, again, after all.

 _If that lad dies, I will never forgive myself_.

Because some things could not be easily – or ever -- forgiven. Some neglectful failures needed to be remembered, revisited on dark and lonely nights, the way one's tongue revisits the space left behind when an old rotted molar had been pulled. Pain born of one's own failure, therefore born of one's own making... it deserved to be brought to the fore, retasted and relived, so the same errors are not ever repeated. 

And yet, for all his good intentions, he may have done just that. Repeated a grave error. Should he have just picked the lad up and carried him to hospital? It could never have been. But he should have done more, been more aggressive, found a doctor and brought him…if one could be persuaded to come, that is… for such a thing.

Resting back on his haunches, feeling just a little bit breathless and not sure whether it was due to mere exertion or because of the bubble of regret rising within him, and not for the first time, or the hundredth.

Because John Dawson may have done better with McCartney – had said all of the right things about blame and evil, and had praised his brave resolve. But he had not done so well for the love of his life. Had not found the words that helped to encourage such resolve. Words that, perhaps even at this very moment, were repeating somewhere in Paul McCartney’s fevered brain, or subconsciously feeding his will to stay alive.

No, he’d not said the words. He had failed, failed to understand.

And then, suddenly, so quickly, it had been too late to say anything more.

***

“ _Oh, my poor child…_ ”

He could hear the voice, as though from a distance – warm, feminine, her words so ripe with pity as to seem almost liquid in his mind, as though they poured forth from her, and then rippled about him in rivers of pink and yellow, pretty currents, buoying him up. Painted words, swirling all around him, carrying him along. “You poor boy.”

 _Mum_?

“ _You stay with us, lad,_ ” almost a whisper, as a wonderfully cool cloth was pressed against his wrists, and then to his temples.

No, not Mum, then. He’d been looking for her, searching for what seemed a very long time, walking in this strange place where there was light all about, but no sort of sun. There was a sense of warmth, but also a road too slippy to be rightly managed, as though there had been rain, but it had left behind no refreshment, only a bit of ice, or mud or whatever it was that was keeping him off kilter, unable to make any progress forward, unable to grab on to a strong hold and pull himself up.

Unable to find her.

 _Mum_?

He didn’t know where he was going. Off to find the sun where it was brightest, he supposed. _I’ll follow the sun_. But he kept losing his feet, somehow, feeling himself slide, down, slide back, _slide, glide, ride it honey_ , but no, he was losing ground. And then the voice, and the colors, pulling him here and there. It felt nice. Nice just to float, to come off his feet, because there was pain, sometimes.

That’s where it came from, right, his feet? But he kept losing them.

Sometimes it felt like his legs were being moved about – as though they were stirring up the liquid, bringing all the colors together – and then there would be pain, and more of those water-words, those soothing notes behind it. Dip a paintbrush into the pain and write a word of love.

But he hated the pain. No more of that, please. Yellow, thick, liquid. He was floating back to Paris. Sitting in the sun, with [John smiling at him, biting his lip, touching his thigh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119496). Watching Paul pulling on a straw as he drank a banana milkshake.

A banana milkshake, thick and yellow. But there was no sweetness. _Is this what pus tastes like?_ Was he drinking a pus milkshake?

It was vile. It was bile. He had miles to go. But he was so tired. So, so tired.

_Mum? Are you there? Can you see me?_

The milkshake fell from his hands and he was floating again, on that fluidy current, so warm, so chilly at the edge, though. _I’m reaching out, Mum…_

John was gone, now. Paul watched him float away, arm outstretched, but his face completely passive, as though nothing mattered. The Eiffel tower floating off with him. He was on the steps of the Sacré-Cœur, [I want to marry you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20644505), so white, so pretty, and George was with him, now, running ahead, making it to the top of the stairs and motioning him to come through the doors. Let's go get married, then.

But these steps were melting under Paul’s feet, too. He was too tired to climb, and so he sat on…something. He watched it all blow away, like a billowing, creamy-colored cloud, a cloud with fiery red tendrils.

_Goodbye, Paris… hello, Jane. Hello, Janey-waney, my little elf-princess,[my game little Lady Viking Warrior Princess](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19217335), I’ve neglected you, love, I’m sorry. So pretty on my thighs, so pretty when you straddle me and move and coo like that, and yeah, let’s be happy…we might have been happy making babies and calling all of them James…_

But where was she, where was Mary? Would she never come? Could she still not see him? Did she see? It? Did she see it?

_Bit me? Well then, you’ll have it rough, rough, rough little man._

He had never liked the comb. But he didn’t deserve it, no one did, and the sound came to him again, the breaking, the snap of it. The _snap_ of a horn, all inside of him.

_Just grab my hand, Mum, lift me up._

It was all so strange. Everything hurt, now…Ritchie’s big blue eyes, bright as a gas flame. Warm. So warm, Ritchie. That’s what he needed, a fire, and more warmth. Had John been naughty, then, and slipped him some acid? Was he tripping, after all? He knew this shit was not for him.

_Jamie…_

The call, from so far away. Her voice. Her sweet nurse’s voice, soft but knowing. He could hear her! Truly, he could, now. And [Jamie McCartney, how adorable was that?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611301)

_Oh, my Jamie…_

If only he could get there, get to where she was. What direction would that be? Forward? Backward? He kept being pulled backward, and off his feet. Was she in the sun? Is that why he was following? But there was the moon, and the moon was John, his Johnny, his night, his nightlight, his light knight. These medals are so stupid…he looked down and watched wooden stars fall from his chest by the thousands. He was suddenly huge. He felt colossal, like a planet circling about the sun. Finally, the sun.

 _Mum_?

There was a tunnel. There was light, light, so much light, everywhere. But he was big, so immense.

 _I contain multitudes_.

Too big for the tunnel. He felt like Alice, able to see the garden, but too big to fit through the door. He needed to drink the thing, needed to eat the little cake, needed to cry until his saltwater filled the hallways and warped the doors.

 _Mum_?

The pain again. Don’t, don’t, don’t move my legs, no, don’t. Janey, honey, climb on my lap to stop the pain, stop the pain and help me get small, so I can go. I want to go! Goodbye John, my love, let me see you like that one more time, so under me, so soft for me…goodbye, goodbye, I’ve loved you all… In myyyyyy life, I've loved you more. Oh, and we've only just recorded it and [Stop holding my hand](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20699831/chapters/49169483), no, no, don't stop it. It's all for me. Hold on, hold on, Johnny, Johnny, [you're my Johnny, Johnny, Johnny whoops, Johnny, Johnny](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20449868)...never let me go....

_Jamie, darling…_

He was back in the swirling warmth, back in the yellow and the pink, and the stream he was riding was all gold, all golden, with the voices calling his name.

_Mum...I’ve missed you. I’ve been missing you for so, so long…_

_***_

Fog, the endless fog of Liverpool had delayed the flight, but the plane had just landed, and John Dawson was looking forward to meeting the man he'd been sent to collect after Brian, so furious he'd barely been able to speak, had telephoned him as he was leaving the hotel. The press conference had been difficult. The news of Paul's anointing had gotten out. The staff at this hospital could not be trusted, and yet Paul was too ill to be moved. Dawson had listened to the manager sputtering and had immediately agreed to pick up Paul's father. In his imagination, Brian Epstein behind a wheel while in that condition would qualify as a public threat. 

So he had pulled the bellhop trolley behind him and waited as the valet brought his car around and cheerfully helped him load everything into the boot -- books and sweets and numerous bags full of clothes and bloody towels. _Christ, if I were pulled over I'd look like a madman on the run -- The Books and Biscuits Killer, apprehended with bags full of bloody clothes and toweling..._

"Goin' off on holiday," the valet wondered. He was a tall, good looking young fellow, unknown to Dawson, but with a familiar way about him. "Edward", read his badge. A Ned, probably. There were no proper Edward's anymore. _Neddy, my Neddy..._

"No," he responded with a casual air despite a sharp twinge in his chest. "Returning some little items to a friend is all. Are you new here?"

"About a month, sir," the boy said, taking the books from him. "Workin' a year or so to save up for school. Oops, sorry, sir, if you could?" A book had slipped from the pile, and Dawson reached down to retrieve it. "I thank you, sir. You're all set then."

Dawson had tipped him well -- a lad headed to school, after all -- and made a mental note to check out the new employee when he returned to the hotel, see what he was all about, what he meant to study. But something else had been nipping at his heels about the exchange, and as he'd waited, he'd he kept replaying it through his memory, like a tape loop.

"Off on holiday?" No, it wasn't that. Not a bright question but not entirely stupid. He did have luggage and books, after all. No...it was something else. Closing his eyes, he watched the car come around, the eager hands unlocking the boot. A book slides from the pile, landing at his feet. Stooping down. Picking it up. Yes, his feet. He could see them clearly.

Tomorrow morning he would check the lad's file. Would find a moment to speak with him again, friendly-like. Would take another look at the rather expensive-looking slippers on his feet, fine leather, with a kind of braiding on top.

His attention was drawn to the line of travelers, coming off the tarmac and through the door. He spied the man he was waiting for, a fedora on his head, slightly tipped, but there was no missing that eyebrow, so like a question mark.

“Mr. McCartney?”

Jim McCartney looked around with a frown. Before him loomed a giant of a man, slipping off his hat and offering a hand. “I recognized you from your pictures, sir. My name is John Dawson, and I’ll be bringing you to your son.”

“How do you do,” the old man said perfunctorily, moving his small bag to the left in order to shake his hand. “Were you hired by Brian to collect me, then?”

“Here, let me have that,” Dawson offered, taking the suitcase from him and gesturing them forward. “You might say we’re friendly, Brian and I. Traveling alone, sir?”

“My son, Michael is away at the moment, and I thought it best to leave my wife with her daughter. School, you know. Can you tell me what is wrong with my Paul, then?”

“Let’s get in the car, first, shall we? There’s a lot to tell. How much information did Brian give you?”

“Very little, to be honest, and I am needless to say very concerned.” Jim was trying not to show his irritation at being left so much in the dark. “I know only that he’s in serious enough condition that my presence is wanted. And I know Brian sent someone else to tell it to me, which means it was more than he could bear doing, himself. So, you might say I know you will be telling me very bad news, once you stop stalling and actually start that engine.”

Ah. And here is where the strong deductive reasoning came from, and the diplomatic skills. And the wit. Paul came by those strengths honestly, through his father, Dawson observed, although he believed Paul would be less politic at this moment – would be flashing his dark eyes and demanding real answers. Still…his father wasn't exactly pulling his punches, either.

“I will tell you everything I know, sir, as soon as we get on the road.”

It _was_ a stalling tactic, yes. The elder McCartney had nailed it. But it would be much easier to tell this man the whole of his son’s sorry story, Dawson knew, if both men could busy their eyes with watching the road, rather than looking at each other, and reading all the unsaid words that might flash across their features, all unbidden, and telling more than one wanted to say, or the other wanted to hear.

“I will tell you this much,” he huffed as they walked at a good clip. “You’ve raised a very fine young man, there, sir. And a strong one.”

Jim McCartney seemed heartened by the words, a small, grim smile playing at his lips. “Aye, he’s always been stronger than he’s looked,” he agreed.

 _Let us hope_ , John Dawson thought as he opened the passenger door for Jim McCartney, _that he’s strong enough, then_.


	18. Memories of Paul...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's phone call to Mimi helps to strengthen him and stabilize him, even as his aunt is plenty shaken up. After asking Mimi to remain available to him by phone, he finally manages to call Cynthia. Between the two calls, there has been a lot of warm memories stirred up between them all, and John is anxious to spend a little time at his partner's bedside. But...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for a longer wait than usual for an update. Been a little under the weather and also a bit nervous about writing all of this. But we shall grind onward and persevere! Or something, right?  
> Sorry for this. Keep a stiff upper lip, like good Brits, okay?

Calling Mimi had been exactly the right thing for John to do. She had impacted him like ballast on a ship, making him feel weighted to something, and thus stabilized. As he had shared some (not all) of the details, John had felt himself growing calmer – as though pronouncing true things rather than fears (real as they were) could put one on surer footing.  
  
It helped that Mimi, for all her voice quavered, still managed to interrupt him with intelligent or impatient questions, and spat out a seething, “ _Monsters_! When they are found out drawing and quartering will not be enough!”

John had actually smiled. Such a Mimi thing to say.

But she had wept, and that was not a Mimi thing to do. Even when her husband and her sister had died, she had managed her usual stoicism, showing “appropriate” grief, which meant mostly silent tears, spilled behind a black veil and quickly wiped away.

For Paul and his circumstances, though, Mimi wept – quietly, but John could tell by her wavering tone, her hesitation in responding a few times, and the sniffles she was clearly dabbing at with a hankie.

Still, she had that Mimi-knack of keeping things conversational, which is exactly what was so helpful to John. At one point she lit a cigarette and then mentioned that she was using the slim, gold “ladylike” lighter Paul had brought her back from their second residency in Hamburg. “It called to me,” he had told her as she’d unwrapped the package. “It said, ‘ _I’ve an enamel flower decoration and can fit a small hand! I’m meant for Mimi!’”_ And then he had startled the woman by daring to pull her into his arms for a hug until she’d pushed him away, calling him a “ridiculous, sentimental idiot” who should be saving his money.

“Aye,” John recalled. “He laughed at you and said you should come with us to Hamburg next time because you could teach the Germans there a few things about being rigid.”

“Cheeky, impudent boy.” Mimi’s smile translated over the miles, to John. “He was always so _cheeky.”_

“ _Is,_ Mimi. He _is_ cheeky and impudent.”

“Of course he is, dear. I didn’t mean to say ‘was’. We mustn’t give up hope. I’m sure he will bounce back. You’ll see. Paul is so resilient. And stubborn. I’m sure some part of him is so furious and obstinate right now that he will wear down that infection…”

“In the same way as he wore down you…”

They both sighed, sharing a moment’s hopefulness and remembering Paul’s tireless campaign to win Mimi over by alternately flattering her and bossing her around, which kept her on her toes, and therefore had amused the woman enough that she – like everyone else – eventually found her defenses routed by the sustained McCharmly offense.

Mimi broke the silence, getting down to business. “Do you want me to come to you, John? If that will help you, I will come down tomorrow, first flight.”

“No, love,” John decided after a minute’s deliberate thought. “I’d rather you stayed near the phone, so I know I can reach you in a moment. If you’re traveling and something happens…”

“Nothing will happen, son…”

John closed his eyes, pressing the receiver into his forehead for a moment, the pain helping him stay in control. “You can’t know that, Mimi. I… I’m going to need to reach you right away if…if”

“Then I will be here,” she finished for him. “I’ll bring the phone into the loo with me, if I must, to be sure to answer your call.”

“Mimi!” John sounded sincerely shocked. “I can’t believe you’d even entertain the notion of a phone in the loo!”

“You see what I do for you, John,” she chided. “You’ve never appreciated me.”

“Well…I’ve never appreciated you more than this very minute, anyhow. Daft woman.”

Finally ringing off from his auntie, he rubbed his face and stared at the phone for a minute before finally feeling strong enough to call his wife.

Cynthia picked up on first ring, and began haranguing John as soon as she heard his voice. “Oh my God, John! Why haven’t you called me? It’s all over the news, is it true? Is it true? What’s happened to Paul?”

“Cyn, Cyn, love…yes. Calm down, now…”

“I called Brian’s office but no one seems to know anything! You should have called me!”

Her frustration spent, she finally heard him apologizing. “I know I should have called you, love, but, it’s more complicated than what you’re hearing --.”

“Is he going to be brain-damaged? Is he really dying? What’s _happened_ , John?”

He was out of cigarettes and suddenly felt like he couldn’t possibly play the narrator again. “It’s a long story, Cyn. But yes…it’s bad. I feel like if he can just get through the night…”

“Through the night?” Cynthia gasped, nearly dropping the phone. “Are you saying you don’t know if he’ll live the night?”

John felt himself losing some of the bracing he’d just gotten from Mimi. “Like I said, love, it’s bad,” he sighed.

“Well, then you can tell me when I get there, because I’m coming straight over,” his wife declared.

“No, Cyn, don’t--” he started. “We’re all here, and there’s so many nurses, and Jim McCartney is being brought in, and--”

“John, listen to me,” Cynthia was using the Head Mistress voice he always took seriously when she dared to haul it out. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“I am coming and you will not stop me. I know he is your friend and your best mate. I know how much he means to you.”

 _You can’t begin to…_ John thought.

“But Paul is my friend, too. You’re not the only one who loves him. And I need to see him.”

 _God,_ the unwelcome thought came _, Julian will never remember him if he dies… He’ll forget ‘Unca Pawh’…_

“And I’d think – I’d hope, love -- that you’d want me there, too, with you.” The very real hurt in her voice brought John back to the conversation.

“I do want you here,” he said, suddenly realizing it was true. He wanted Cynthia there. “Sorry, I was just thinking… Julian, you know…”

“Oh, God, yes…” She immediately understood his meaning. “He’ll never understand…”

“He’s been like the boy’s ‘second father’ since the moment they met, remember?”

She did, of course. The memory was too vivid to ever forget. Herself lying-in, John lifting Julian from the bassinet by her bed, so carefully and nervously, barely breathing as he turned to show him off to Paul, who – in his eagerness to get to the newborn -- was nearly on top of his partner.

“God, look at him,” he had purred to Lennon, all besotted as he’d stroked the baby’s cheek. “He looks just like you, love. He’s a little miracle!”

He’d been standing with one arm braced around John’s shoulder, practically glowing -- his megawatt grin so huge anyone would think it was his own son – and the two men had simply gazed in wonder at this tiny, brand-new creature.

When the baby wrapped his hand around his callused finger Paul had let out the purest, silliest giggle Cynthia had ever heard come from an adult, and then he’d turned and kissed John’s cheek, which John barely seemed to notice, so entranced was he by his little son.

Cynthia had noticed, though. She’d been jolted to see the kiss; she’d never seen a man kiss another man before, and she was frowning a little at Paul’s display until he left her husband’s side and came to her, still with that excited grin, and kissed her twice, first on her forehead, then on her cheek, and pressed her arm gently. “He’s so, so beautiful, Cyn! And you’re going to be such a great little mum…”

Her eyes were watering at the recalled moment, and all of the sudden images that flooded her memory: Paul taking a crying Julian from her exhausted arms and bouncing around the room with him, crooning at him softly, until the baby grew quiet.

Paul showing John how to change a nappie and explaining that he’d changed “hundreds of ‘em thanks to all my shitty and pissy little cousins…”

Paul playing in the back garden with a barely-walking Julian while both she and John nursed an anniversary-dinner-led hangover. The baby laughing and laughing, and Paul along with him. Second father? Yes. And so often the more naturally engaged one…

 _Oh, Paul_.

He couldn’t be dying. He just couldn’t.

“Alright, then,” she said, shaking herself away from the thought. “I’ll have Julian seen to and then come straight over. Do you want me to bring you anything? Change of clothes?”

“Bring chocolate,” he said without thinking. “We’ll need it. And ciggies. Can you bring a few cartons of ciggies?”

“John, _cartons?”_

“We’re smokin’ our lungs black, Cyn, all of us. All the waiting and the not-knowing.”

“I’ll bring them,” she understood. “What about Jane, is she there?”

“Honestly, I’ve been on the phone…I have no idea if anyone’s called her. I assume Brian must have. As far as I know, she’s not here.”

“God, the poor girl, she must be so worried. It’s really very wrong of you not to have called either of us right away.”

“Cyn, please,” John begged quietly. “We may have been wrong but we didn’t mean to be. You will understand when you get here…”

“That…sounds very bad.”

John wanted off the phone. He’d been too long away from Paul’s bedside and it suddenly occurred to him that no one knew where he was – a matron had just shown him to a random unoccupied office when he’d called for a phone, and he barely knew where he was, himself. If he was needed, he’d been useless this half-hour or more. As he tried to end the call, though, an idea struck him.

“You know, love, maybe have the car stop by Jane’s and see if she’s there. Bring her over with you so you have some company together?”

“That’s a good idea,” Cynthia agreed, sounding surprised she hadn’t thought of it herself. “I’ll call her right now, and if she’s home, I’ll do that.”

“Good girl,” John said absently. “Come through the emergency side, because I’m sure the crowds will be coming.”

His wife gasped. “Will be _coming_? John, haven’t you seen the telly? You’re being invaded.”

“Shit,” he spat out. “That’s exactly what we don’t need. Look, I’m going to go see how Paul is doing and I’ll let Brian know you’re on your way and all…just don’t forget the ciggies, yeah?”

“Ciggies… _cartons_ , chocolates and Jane. I’ll bring them all,” Cynthia promised.

Finishing his call with Cynthia, John wended his way through the hallway, and things began to look familiar for him. _Not so lost after all, then…_

He reached the emergency area hoping to work on that head matron again – to get some access to Paul’s bedside – and froze in the doorway, his eyes going wide, a sharp sense of disorientation hitting him like a brick, and overwhelming him.

The curtain was open. That was where Paul had been, wasn’t it? That spot, not some other. He glanced around the room, suddenly unsure. That’s where Paul had been, wasn’t it?

But…but the curtain was open.

The curtain was open, and the spot was empty.

The spot was empty.

The spot was empty. There was no Paul.

There was no Paul. Paul was gone.

_Paul was gone..._


	19. Singing Yesterday Today and Hoping There Will Be a Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim arrives. Cyn and Jane arrive. MI5 is there. All of London is waiting for word on Paul. They're singing "Yesterday" with no idea whether Paulie will have a tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, after putting you guys through the mill over the last few chapters, this one...is long. And it's hard in some places, but soft in others, with some tender moments I really hope you like. It's a long chapter because I wanted to end it at a certain place, after a specific event, and it all needed to kind of come together. So, yeah, here is a lot to get through, here.

_Wow…I’m flying…flying mum…just let me take your hand. Flying, John, hold my hand, love, before you bang into the boom. Flying mum, so slowly…I’m reaching out. Where is your hand? I’m flyyyying…._

It was a slow business moving Paul out of the emergency area, but Brian was glad to have him relocated to a place with more privacy and less access. He’d been contemplating asking for such a move only to find himself taken aside by a well-dressed, very soft-spoken gentleman who had introduced himself very vaguely and then explained a few things. Namely, that by high order – very high – Macca was to be moved to rooms reserved for members of the royal household. “It is secure and there will be room for all of you to be comfortable while you are waiting. Also, some particularly gifted medical people, who are not usually on staff here, will soon be in attendance. The gravity of this situation is understood.”

And now he watched as Paul, covered to his nose in blankets, shielded by a makeshift canopy and surrounded by both medical personnel and a few serious looking men in suits, was being wheeled into a restricted area.

At first there had been some question as to whether the bassist was strong enough even to endure such a careful and slow transfer. “He is in very grave condition,” Dr. Richmond had cautioned. “His blood pressure is dangerously low, his heartbeat is slow, his breathing is--”

But moved he had been, and Brian was grateful beyond words for it, thinking that if – God forbid! – Paul should die, at least the group wouldn’t have to worry about seeing a “death photo” of him leaked to tabloids. The lad would be spared that final indignity, at least.

The brief press conference had completely shattered Eppy, who no longer felt confident about anything. He realized now that hour-by-hour he had been losing the tight hold he’d tried to keep on this situation. The clumsy handling of the Last Rites question – in hindsight he knew he should have outright denied it and called it “reckless rumor-mongering” – had confirmed the seriousness of Paul’s condition, and now there was a crowd gathering around the hospital, growing by the minute. Teenagers, of course, but also men and women. It felt like all of London was descending, encircling the building as though keeping a death watch while making things more difficult for emergency vehicles, staffers and all the usual people who just wanted to visit a sick relative – or deliver a baby – and now had to first work their way through a mob crying over here, praying over there, and singing out Beatles songs, one after another.

_Oh, I believe in yesterday…_

It was getting all inside Brian. He was barely keeping it together. Thousands of voices were outside, singing the words, while inside their author was hanging on to life by a thread, and who knew if that young lad would ever have a tomorrow, and it was all so awful. But at least they were all around Paul, now, George, Ritchie, himself, and – finally – John. 

Lennon had been delivered to the rooms only minutes earlier by the matron who had found him in a corner of the emergency sector, grasping a doorframe, trembling and staring at the empty space where Paul had been – his eyes wide, his body too terrified to permit the question burning in his throat and tearing at his heart.

“There he is, love,” the matron had said to John as he’d stumbled in blindly and gone directly to Paul’s side, his body still shaking from the jolt of fear that had completely owned him. “All right and tight…” she added, as though she actually believed it.

John was immediately in the way of a young-looking nurse who was gently bathing Paul’s face in an attempt to help lower his fever.

He didn’t care if he was in the way, was too shaken to care. As the nurse carefully ran a sponge down one of his partner’s arms, John went to the other, laying his trembling hand over Paul’s hot, lifeless one, and giving it the barest squeeze as he gulped hugely and let his tears flow. “Thought I’d lost you, Jamie,” he whispered, close to Macca’s ear. “Stick with me, eh, doll? We’re all here, now. We’re together.”

The nurse reached behind Paul to lower his gown and John helped her from his side, carefully folding the fabric down and out of the way, until Paul’s full chest and abdomen were exposed. He saw the nurse blink and step back for a moment, a low exclamation escaping from her as the discolored bruises and bites came into view. “Sorry,” she whispered to John, knowing she’d betrayed her surprise.

“It’s alright,” he nodded at her consolingly. "It _is_ shocking." He watched, still holding his partner’s hand, as she ran the sponge over Paul’s shoulder then moved to his chest and below. When she had rewet the thing and wrung it out, John stayed her hand. “C-can I do it,” he begged her. “I’ll do this side, okay? Please?”

He looked so woebegone it was impossible to refuse him. Casting a glance about the room to be sure the matron was gone, the girl handed the sponge off to John with a sympathetic look.

“Thank you, sister.” His tone was touchingly sincere as he took it and began copying her actions, running the sponge over Paul’s shoulders and down his arm, then to his chest. “Paulie, I’m giving you a sponge bath,” he said in a more normal voice, coughing a bit when it broke. “Who’d have thunk it, eh, love? ‘Big bad Lennon’ playin’ nursemaid to the ‘sweet-natured McCartney’. Aye, so sweet. Imagine what would happen to our image, love, if they ever figured out you’re the tough nut-and-chocolate outside and I’m the marshmallow inside…whole world-views would shatter, wouldn’t they?”

He paused his motion for a moment, gazing at Paul's face with naked pain and longing, then shaking his head sadly and continuing with a sigh. “Cyn’s on her way here,” he continued, hoping to say something, anything, that might draw a response from the battered figure before him. Macca was so hot the sponge needed another rewetting. “Just got off the phone with her, and also with Mimi, who said that if you don’t get better instantly it will only prove that you’re still as impertinent as you ever were.”

The nurse was gently patting down the area she’d washed, laying the towel across her half of Paul, to prevent a chill. Though trying not to eavesdrop, she observed John’s careful ministrations with a professional eye and was astonished by the gentle way he was touching his partner -- moving so carefully, and all while watching Paul’s face for any sort of reaction. _No one has ever looked at me with that much tenderness_ , she thought to herself, surprised to even find that word, ‘tenderness’, in her own thinking. It was not a word she commonly used, but she knew it was the right word for what she was seeing, and her throat tightened, her eyes watered at the knowing of it.

It was a privileged and moving thing, she thought, to witness something as private and intimate as this. It made her feel strangely protective of John Lennon and Paul McCartney. She had always been a fan, of course. But somehow it felt like now the partners were _hers_ to defend against the careless world.

“She’s still tough as nails, is Mimi, Paul.” John was saying. “But she wants you to know she loves you. Did you hear what I said, Macca? ‘Mimi loves Paul McCartney’. _She loves you yeah, yeah, yeah…’”_ He sang it softly and then winked at the nurse, marveling at his own composure. “As do we all, aye, Sister? You love him, too, right?”

The girl betrayed herself, nodding and letting loose with a small chuckle, utterly disarmed by the charisma of John Lennon when he was fully in control of himself.

“Thank you for letting me help you,” he said to her as he finished up, giving her the sponge and accepting a towel. “It’s – it was just what I needed. Nearly passed out when I didn’t find him where I expected to, you know. I thought…” He swallowed noisily. “Thought the worst. Felt like I was shutting down. Being able to do this for him…”

He couldn’t speak further, but the girl saw his eyes, round and wet, and she nodded in complete understanding.

“Your welcome,” she said so softly only John could hear, as they raised Paul’s gown over his shoulders again and then covered him with a blanket. “You can help me again tomorrow, if you like.”

“Tomorrow…” Lennon bit his lip. “Tell me it’s a promise that we’ll do this again tomorrow,” he pled in a low voice. “That means tomorrow will actually come. For me and for Paul.”

The nurse nodded as she gathered her things together. “It’s a promise. You can help me again, tomorrow.”

When he was sure she had gone, John leaned down, his forehead touching Paul’s. “Did you hear that, Macca? You get to be hand-bathed by Johnny again tomorrow, so you need to stick around for the show, aye, babe? And you know, Jane’s coming. Cyn’s bringing her. We two redheads can fight over who gets to wipe your brow.”

He kissed the closed eyes, very softly, not caring if George or Ringo or Brian saw. “Doesn’t that sound like a show you won’t want to miss? Lennon and Lady Jane squaring off to determine which one can give a bath to The McCartney. She’s only a wee thing, though. I’ll have her on a TKO, love, if she tries to touch that sponge. We’ll need you awake to count it off. And your dad, don’t forget. Old Jim is on his way. If you wake up you can watch the bloodbath when he kicks my ass…”

“John stop.” He felt Ringo at his elbow. “Jim is not going to blame any of this on you. You did nothing wrong.”

“I left him alone,” John told him, head still on Paul’s. “And if Jim ever believed one good thing about me, it was that I’d never leave Paulie alone, put him in a position where he'd get hurt…”

“John,” George’s frown was deep, as was his voice. “Leave off with that nonsense. You could have gone for a pee and they’ve had taken him, you know? Look, they’ve put tea stuff in the next room and it seems like you could stand a cup. Go get one and Ritchie and I will stay with him.”

John raised his head, noticing for the first time that this new room had, quite luxuriously, its own waiting-place – a connecting room with a full-glass wall, comfortable chairs, a large sofa and a tea service set out, including small cakes. 

“Tea,” he sighed, suddenly feeling ravenous. “Wouldn’t you like to wake up and have some tea with us, love,” he asked Paul, looking at him for a moment as though he really expected an answer. He kissed Paul’s forehead softly before leaving. “You two will keep talking to him, aye?”

“Of course,” Ringo frowned at him. “What else are we going to do?”

John could hear the drummer begin his spiel right away. “Because this Dingle lad has a few things to say to you, Mr. James Paul McCartney, so you lend me an ear, then, yeah? You should see the birds outside, thousands of ‘em, all yours for the pickin’ as soon as you open your eyes.”

“Aye,” George added, “Got all of London outside singin’ yer bleedin’ songs, dontcha, you attention hog.”

_Tea…I would love tea…[Johnny, Johnny, Johnny bring me tea, Johnny whoops, Johnny,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20449868) flirtin’ with the girl… I felt that, love… kissed me…like you mean it…that’s a song title, that is… if I had my notebook…Cyn’s comin’…Mum, you hear that? Bringin’ Janey, my Janey, Janey, never feels the pain-y and I love her… she could fetch my notebook… God Save the Queen of Hearts she made some tarts…I’m so tired…so tired, Mum… Kiss me like you mean it, Sister, and I’d really love a cuppa… Da could bring it… maybe Da can bring a cuppa… so tired, Ritchie…tired, Geo…_

“I’m so glad Cynthia is bringing Jane,” Brian said to John as they both fixed their cups.

“Didn’t know if you’d called her,” John began.

“I hadn’t. I was just going to when they pulled me aside to talk about moving Paul, and then… It just…fell out of my head.”

“Aye, I get that. Jane does live more or less on our peripheries, doesn’t she,” John nodded. “Sometimes I think she’s the farthest thing on Paul’s radar, too. But I’m certain he’d want her here,” he added quickly. “I didn’t explain anything to Cyn, so we’ll get to tell it all to both of them at once, then.”

“One and done,” Brian mused. “If only everything were that neat. Speaking of neat… let me tell you why we’re in this room.”

***

“ _Christ._ Word’s gotten out,” John Dawson muttered as he began to encounter the crowds well before he had reached the hospital grounds. He slowed down, mindful of emotional pedestrians all too willing to fling themselves over any car that seemed interesting. “You might want to bring your hat low on you, sir. Don’t need to be spotted.”

Jim McCartney was staring straight ahead, seeing nothing before him. Sparing him a glance, Dawson realized the older man hadn’t heard a word, wasn’t seeing the crowd at all, because if his body was present, his mind was in some other place and time. _Good, Lord,_ Dawson thought. _He’s aged twenty years since he came off that plane._

“You’re telling me my boy was drugged and set upon by these monsters,” he had said earlier in the barest whisper, “and there was no one near him, no one to help? And now he is dying…that my son has been…this badly… _assaulted…raped?_ Enough to kill him?” His hands had been shaking so uncontrollably that he’d broken a cigarette while putting it in his mouth, and had not tried for another.

He’d not spoken another word since those awful few.

It took some minutes before they finally reached a bobby directing traffic. Quickly explaining his business and who he was transporting, Dawson was directed to the emergency entrance, which was being kept as clear as possible. As they emerged from the car, a younger man in a dark suit approached. Dawson recognized him as the same fellow he’d passed off the packet of photos to earlier in the day. “He’s been moved, and let’s get the father up there quickly, because it seems he won’t last.” The detective nodded, taking a dazed-looking Jim McCartney by the elbow, and following.

“So, you’re _here_ , now?” He asked discretely.

“Singular attention is being paid.” Came the answer.

“And we’re very thankful for that,” Dawson nodded. “We’ll talk in a bit. I may have spotted something.”

The suit gave a barely perceptible nod. “I’ll be nearby.”

He walked them quickly through the hallway to the secure area, depositing them with a subdued knock at the door and then disappearing.

Before Dawson had a chance to buck up the elder McCartney, a new sister, who had just finished fussing with Paul’s IV lines and reassuring John and George about what looked like little bubbles within it, opened the door.

John instantly found George’s wrist and grabbed on to it with a death grip. Both young men stared at McCartney, having no idea what to expect, but anticipating heat.

Instead, they both ended up rushing to help the man, whose knees seemed to have given out the instant he saw the bed -- so many tubes and wires. With Dawson beside them, and Brian and Ritchie rushing in from the other room, Jim McCartney was helped over to Paul with his son’s oldest friend on one side, and his dearest friend on the other.

In truth, the man had no awareness of them. His whole attention, his whole heart and mind, were focused on the sight before him.

His son, his beautiful boy ([ _“Who’s the prettiest lad in Liverpool, then?”_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/46942342) he could hear Mary’s voice asking it of their lovely baby), face bruised, both arms hooked up to wires feeding him blood and medicine meant to keep him alive.

His Paul, lying there, so pale. As still as death.

His hat fell from his grasp as his hand went over his mouth, meant to hold back the wordless keen that was rising from his depths. _My boy…my Paul…_

Ringo had brought a chair, but the older man did not sit. Still supported by the band members, he reached over, one hand leaning on the mattress, and stroked Paul’s face, skimming the purple near his eye with the back of his hand, letting his fingers trace the swollen lips. The wounded sound he’d been trying to bury inside him began to rise, until he betrayed himself with a quiet but real sob. “Oh, Mary,” he gasped. “Look at our boy. What they’ve done to our boy.”

George felt like he was losing it. He’d always thought of himself as a fairly strong chap, but he’d known Jim McCartney since he was eleven years old, and he’d never seen the man looking anything but strong and optimistic, even if he was being serious over something. Seeing him like this – suddenly old, withered in grief, and nearly defeated -- it was more terrifying than any enraged rant they might have expected from him. Looking over Jim’s head, he could see John watching Paul’s father with wide eyes. He too looked ready to bolt -- barely breathing as he watched the scene before him.

“Paul… _Christ Almighty…”_ Jim uttered, leaning over shakily on arthritic hips to speak into Paul’s ear. “Son…Daddy’s here…your Pa is here.”

From a corner of the room there came another sound, a kind of strained _whoop_ as Brian, of all people, lost his composure, bawling in ever-louder gasps. It was the sound of a man who was not used to crying and had no idea how to let himself do it – a terrible, heart-wrenching mixture of pain and abject fear. Every man there recognized it, because they all felt it rising within themselves, too.

Ringo went to him, putting a hand to his back and murmuring something low as he led their manager into the other room, making sure to close the door against Eppy’s noisy breakdown.

Jim McCartney never heard him. Every bit of his energy was directed toward the figure on the bed. “Oh, Paul…” he repeated, still stroking his face. He brought his cheek to his son’s forehead and grimaced at the heat. “It’s no good, son, this fever,” he whispered, “no good. But we’ve been here before, aye? [You beat it back when you were little.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611301) Now you’re a grown man, you can do it again.”

Before he began to babble from sheer panic, the older man took a moment to find something, someone, to ground his thoughts on. John Dawson was the other side of the bed, and caught his eye. “He had a rheumatic fever when he was a boy, didn’t he?” Jim explained. “We nearly lost him, then. Took two weeks and left him with a heart murmur, aye, but he fought through it.”

Standing at attention like the eagle-eyed ex-copper that he was, Dawson nodded reassuringly. “A strong lad,” he agreed. “I’m sure he’ll perk up, now you’re here.”

McCartney kissed his son’s forehead. “Aye, you’ll have to do battle again, my dear boy. But I am with you, now. Daddy’s here.” He sniffed, shaking off George’s support to find his handkerchief. “And your mates are with you. And you must be very strong for us, lad – braw as you have it in you to be – and come back to us, now. He glanced at each of the young men beside him. “Isn’t that right, boys? Tell him.”

John, feeling as though he were in a dream, swallowed back a throat full of tears. “Listen to Jim, Paul. You can’t leave us now your Da’s here, yeah?”

“Aye,” George chimed in. “And Patti and I need our Best Man, don’t we?”

Finally, too exhausted to continue to stand, Jim lowered himself into the chair with a resigned sigh. He looked up at the three men still with him, and the nurse standing nearly hidden in the corner, as he unbuttoned his coat, prepared to settle in for a long haul. “Would you give me a little time alone with him, please,” he asked, demonstrating exactly where Paul’s impeccable manners came from. The three men nodded, quickly joining Brian and Ritchie.

When the nurse didn’t move, he looked at her pointedly, one eyebrow raised.

“I can’t leave, sir. One of us must always be here with him.”

“A few minutes, please --” he began.

“It’s my job if I’m caught,” she insisted, “I’d be sacked. Although,” she offered, after a beat. “I suppose if I’m just on the other side of the window, there…that might be alright.”

With a slip of white, she too was in the suddenly crowded waiting room, and Jim had to content himself with many pairs of eyes watching as he took his son’s hand into his own, and kissed it, and then gave himself over to silent, unfamiliar tears.

_Daddy…daddy… I’m dyin’… I’m dyin’ for a cuppa, you know… Mum, Da’s here. Da’s here and he’s here, and I might be queer and he can’t know it. Daddy… Was that Brian cryin’… It’s another song, Brian’s cryin’ cause baby is dyin’… Johnny calls me baby...Johnny knows I'm Jamie, and Da’s here, Mum, he’s here and we’re all so near… It’s another song… Johnny would love it… In death we are in life… Mum? … Mummy? And in life we are in death, aye… John? Da’s here, Mum… Mum?_

_… Mum?_

_***_

It was a stultifying thing, John thought, to wait in hospital with no idea how long one will be there, what to expect within the next hour, and the hour after that. The band, Brian, Dawson, they’d all taken turns going back and forth to sit at Paul’s bedside, directly across from Jim who – beyond saying ‘thank you’ when handed a cup of tea – was keeping his own council, alternately staring at Paul as though literally willing him to get better and open his eyes, or holding his head in his hand. Not being a religious man, if he was praying, it was not obvious.

The boys had risen when Jane and Cynthia showed up, John hugging first his wife and then Paul’s girlfriend with a similar clinginess. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed to hold someone, and Cyn’s embrace seemed to sow needed strength into him. _All of my women are strong women_ , he thought to himself. _And thank God for that, because I a weak, weak man_.

Jim, too, had shakily begun to stand but Jane immediately went to him, patting his shoulders and encouraging him to sit, even as her eyes were consumed by Paul’s still form, before her.

“Paul,” she gasped before bringing both hands up to her mouth and then breathing deeply through them, as though to stop herself from saying anything more, or to enforce some self-control. Like Jim before her, she stroked Paul’s face with her fingertips, wincing at his heat. “He’s a fever,” she said to the room. “How does a cracked head bring a fever? And where are the bandages?” She turned to Brian and John, her blue eyes bright with growing anger. “You didn’t even call me,” she said. “And now, what? Are you lying to everyone? Tell me what is happening.”

“Not here, Jane,” Brian said, interrupting her as she was about to light into him. He motioned the nurse with his head, and also made a slight gesture toward Paul’s father. “You’re perfectly right to be angry but I think you’ll understand once we explain. But not here,” he repeated. He took her hand. Jane snatched it away, folding her arms before her in a very Paul-like gesture. “The both of you had better give me some answers, and quickly.”

Brian again motioned his head toward the waiting room. “The both of _you_ come into the next room, and we’ll explain all of it. In detail. Come, now.”

John and Cynthia moved to the other room, Jane following Brian, reluctantly, after casting another look at Paul. Ringo and George came out, preferring Jim’s silence over being forced to hear the whole ugly tale again. “Coming with?” They asked Dawson.

“I need him here,” Brian answered.

It was a long, long session with the girls. George and Ringo sat with their backs to the window, preferring sound over sight, but soon enough wishing the other room had been sound-proofed.

 _“No!”_ They heard the word repeated emphatically over and over by both women, as they struggled with what they were being told. Cynthia’s tone was wet and unbelieving, and often muffled. Likely she had buried herself in John’s chest as she cried. Jane’s voice, however was both tearful and furious. _“No! You are not telling me this!”_ It was an unexpectedly huge bellow from such a small girl. But then, she was trained to project her voice, and she wasn’t holding back.

“Oh, God,” came a moan. That was Cynthia.

 _“Fuckers!”_ That was Jane. “And where were _you_ ,” came the furious question. That sounded like Jane, too.

“Poor John,” Geo murmured to Ritchie, who nodded. John’s low-voiced response was unintelligible but the sound of a hand smaking his face – flesh on flesh contact and wholly unrestrained – came through loud and clear. So did the second one, a few minutes later.

“Is she gonna beat him to a pulp,” George wondered.

“Unless that one was Cyn,” Ritchie answered. The younger man considered a moment and then nodded in agreement. “Cyn might’ve hit him, too. And he’ll let them, you know. He’ll let ‘em both beat him bloody if they want to. He’s eating himself alive with guilt and thinks he’s got it comin’, when he’s none to blame for any of it.”

“Aye, but that’s John, though. And especially about Paul?” George sighed, shaking his head. “Sometimes I think Paul’s his whole word, even beyond Cyn and the boy.”

“I know,” Ringo was leaning forward, elbows on his knees as he nodded at his best mate. “I’m worried he’ll fall apart, hurt himself, if Paulie…”

George met his eyes. “I know, I know. And me, too. He’s been with me almost all my life. I might fall apart too, Ritchie, I know it. And so maybe will the whole fuckin’ world if that crowd out there is any indicator. Can you imagine it? They’ll be fuckin’ suicides.”

They’d been talking very quietly and intently to each other, their voices barely raising above a whisper. Neither of the young men, engrossed in their shared thoughts – thoughts they’d had no chance to express otherwise -- knew how attentively they were being watched, and heard, by Jim McCartney, whose face was becoming harder and more stone-like by the minute.

They were interrupted by a whirlwind as Jane Asher pulled open the door and rushed back in, her flaming hair making her seem like a ball of fire launched Paul’s way. She all but threw herself upon her unmoving lover. “Paulie, please, darling. Please…”

Her words were incoherent – she seemed a begger who wanted something but couldn’t actually say what. But her tears were real, and flowing down her alabaster face in a torrent. “Darling... _please…”_

_Janey… Janey… come sit here on my lap… so pretty…_

“Miss, you cannot do that,” the nurse was on her instantly, wrestling her away from Paul. “Please, Miss,” the sister was grunting with the effort. “He’s in very delicate condition, and you’ll ruin the tubes…”

Two strong hands managed to grasp her by the shoulders. “Jane, Jane, love. Come away…” It was Jim McCartney, who adored the tiny redhead. He had warm hands and a soothing voice and – like his son – was using them to take control where he could. “Come away, little girl. You’re much too strong for him, right now…”

“He’s so hot,” Jane cried as the older man enfolded in his arms. “Jim, he’s much too hot!”

“Aye, love. He is, you’re perfectly right, and you’re also right to be angry.” He let the young woman cry into his chest for a good long while, until she had settled into long shuddering breathes. “Come, let’s walk, you and I,” he said gently, “just in the hallway, here. I’m better walking than standing still like this, and I do need to stretch my legs. You’ll help me, yeah?”

Still stuttering as she breathed, Jane nodded, taking Jim’s arm. “You’ll stay with him,” he turned and said to George. It was not a question.

“We’ll be here, Jim.”

“Aye, then, come on Little Red -- that’s what he calls you, yes? Let’s have a turn.”

The door closed behind them and John Lennon, who’d been watching in the doorway with a sniffling Cyn still attached to his side, let out a huge sigh. “Fucking _masterful_ , that was.”

John Dawson came up behind him, placing one large hand on his shoulder. “Truly, it was,” he agreed, sounding ever so slightly amused.

When the two returned a quarter-hour later they were followed in by two nurses bearing trays and towels and another bringing fresh tea, which even Jane seemed eager for, readily accepting a cup from Cynthia, even as she avoided John.

Jim McCartney, though, was following the nurses, and John followed him. The women had neatly set out their instruments, including a rather large syringe that looked more like a turkey baster than any proper sort of needle.

“What’s this, then? What are you doing to my son?”

“I’m sorry sirs, you’ll have to leave us for a few minutes.” One of the nurses was at the window, drawing a drape across it.

“But what are you doing,” Jim repeated.

“Sir --” the more senior of the women seemed like she was about to lose patience with the man.

“This is Paul’s father,” John piped up. “He deserves to know, and for that matter, so do I. I’m his partner, and I don’t intend to take my eyes off him, so you might as well tell us what are you doing.” He led an exhausted looking Jim to a chair near the now-hidden window, and helped him to sit. “As you see, his Da’s not going anywhere, either.”

The woman glared at him. John glared back.

“This is highly unusual,” she said through her teeth as her spine stiffened. “I could have you removed.”

“Please,” John said more softly, his vulnerability showing itself. “Just, tell us.”

Making it clear that she was giving more information than she thought either man deserved, the nurse nevertheless answered as the other began to fold the blanket up from Paul’s feet, to the top of his thighs.

“It’s time for his topical antibiotic,” she said. “Dr. Richmond prescribed it every four hours.”

“Yes, I remember,” John interrupted, glad to give evidence that he’d already been privy to some information. “He said this plus some kind of herbal compound, to soothe him.”

“That’s right,” the woman relaxed a little. “This is how we apply all of it as well as we can, directly to his wounds, his infection, without disturbing the abscess.”

“Will it hurt him,” Jim spoke up with concern. “I don’t want him hurting.”

“It will not hurt him,” she sounded certain.

“Nae, the – the medicine might not hurt him,” John said, “but he’s…he’s badly injured, you know. Moving his legs about – if you do it wrong – it might hurt him.”

“I assure you, Mr. Lennon,” the younger nurse said, “we are as gentle as we can be.”

“It might not be enough, though” John’s worry made his voice sound tight. “Maybe I can help. I could…hold him for you.”

He felt Jim’s hand on his own. “Let it be, lad.”

“But… if they move him wrong…”

“Shesh, John,” Jim counselled in a soft voice that nevertheless carried. “I’m sure these sisters will be as kind and careful with our Paul as his own mother was with all of her patients. She was a sister, too, as you know.”

At his words, both nurses immediately softened in their looks, glancing at each other in unspoken communication. “You may stay,” the older women decided, “but you must be quiet as mice, and not interrupt us in any way.”

“We’ll be good.” John promised.

Jim McCartney, sending a small but cherubic smile of thanks in their direction agreed. “Indeed,” he assured them. “We will be very good. Thank you.”

For the first time in all the years he’d known him, John looked at Paul’s father with a sincere and unbegrudged respect. So much of what he loved about Paul, he suddenly realized, was rooted in what his partner had learned from this man. His delicate touch, his manners, his ability to deploy charm like a weapon in order to get his way, his ready compassion – it had lived in Jim before it ever could live in Paul. “Masterful,” he thought once again, suddenly wishing he had taken the time to know Jim McCartney better, maybe even know him as a father.

It was not an easy procedure to watch, even from a distance and with both nurses deliberately shielding as much as they could from the men’s view. Two of the strangely oversized plastic syringes had been prepared. One, John assumed, with the antibiotic, and the other with the herbal balm, which looked thick and creamy. Very soothing, indeed.

But he was wincing as they moved Paul’s legs, setting them wide apart, and raising them at the knees. He remembered all the times he’d seen his lover similarly posed, but never looking so terribly vulnerable, and he found himself nearly unable to watch. “Don’t hurt him.” He hadn’t realized he’d spoken the words aloud, on a flinching intake of breath.

“Steady on, son,” Jim said, giving his knee a squeeze. “They’ll be done quickly.”

He was correct. After seeing to details – lubrication and such – the sisters managed one application within mere minutes of the other, tending to their job with great attention and professionalism yet glancing frequently at Paul’s face, hoping to read any sign of discomfort, there. Like sisters. Like real caregivers. Like the sort of women Paul had said his mother was.

Still, when they lowered Paul’s legs, and straightened them and brought them together, John could swear he saw Paul wince. Just a twinge, but he knew Macca’s face, his every expression so well…and he’d seen that same grimace on the night – that terrible night – when Brian had so gently, and so slightly, moved his legs to gauge the damage.

_John, he’s a mess…_

It was seared into his memory, that night, and _please God, just give him back to us,_ came the thought.

Lennon had no idea that he had watched it all while twisting himself into a tense ball of anxiety and worry for Paul’s sake -- both hands clenched together and raised to his face, his legs crossed, his body twisting and his face scowling as he followed each movement the women made, his eyes moving continually from them to Paul and back, as he held his breath. 

Their treatment finished, both nurses took some time to examine Paul’s IV sites, and to bathe his brow and wrists with moist flannels. The younger nurse, before covering his feet with a blanket, delicately turned his leg, seeking to do the same on an artery in Paul’s foot. She looked up suddenly, gasping as if she’d heard something. 

“S-stop.” It was so quiet.

The nurse straightened as both women stared. “Did he say…” she asked.

John looked up sharply, straining to hear.

“Stop. _Hurts_.”

He grabbed Jim’s hand, hardly daring to believe it. But he recognized the groggy sound of Paul’s voice rising from his drugged and feverish depths. He’d sounded the same on _that_ night, had said nearly the same words.

“Mr. McCartney,” one of the nurses said in a wary voice as she moved to the head of the bed. “Are you with us?”

Paul groaned, a long, low, sound – feral and a little frightening.

The nurse looked at Jim, and then nodded, waving him over silently, and John took the older man’s elbow as they approached the bed. “Speak to your son, sir,” she whispered. “It might bring him up, to hear you.”

There was another groan, sustained and ugly, a sound like an animal, trapped and wounded.

“Paul…” Jim said softly, taking his hand. “I’m here. Will you come ‘round for your old dad, then? Let me know you hear me?”

With some difficulty, Jim gingerly brought himself up to the mattress, fitting himself there as he avoided all the tubes. He stroked Paul’s fringe from his forehead and left his hand there a moment. “His seems less hot then before,” he said to John.

“He is, a little,” the nurse confirmed in a soft voice. “Still fevered, but it’s a lower temperature than it was.”

“That’s a good sign, then, yes?” John raised his eyebrows. “Means the medicine’s working?”

“It’s… _hopeful_ ,” she allowed. “But it’s very early, yet, he’s only had a few doses.”

“But they’re extremely large dosages, so it’s a good sign, yes,” he repeated, no longer asking and determined to think as he pleased.

She nodded slightly as their attention was again turned to Paul, whose moans were growing louder.

“Son, I’m here,” Jim said, his own voice raised a bit. “Can you hear me, Paul? I’m right here, on your very bed I am. And John’s here with me.”

“I’m not on your bed, though,” John spoke up. “But come on, love, snap to it. Dad’s here. Jane’s here and Cyn, too,” he cajoled his mate and squeezed his hand. “The lads and Brian are all here. Everyone is waiting for you to show up, now. I’m here,” he repeated, more quietly.

“Aye, John’s here,” Jim McCartney said again, dangling Paul’s partner before him like a promised sweet. “All we need is you, son.”

And then Paul’s dry lips parted.

_“Da…”_

His voice was weak. John noticed Paul’s eyes moving quickly under his lids, as though he were dreaming deeply. _“Mum…”_

Jim looked at John, blinking hard. _He’s been very close to death, then_ , he thought, _if he’s calling Mary_.

The younger man nodded, as though he’d not only heard the unspoken thought, but agreed with it. That spooky Lennon/McCartney communications voodoo, suddenly alive between them.

“Don’t touch me.” Paul slurred deeply. “Hurts.”

Jim quickly pulled his hand from his son’s, realizing too late that he wasn’t the one being addressed. The words were meant for others, and in that context they were repulsive to hear.

 _“Mum…”_ Paul seemed to be stretching out an arm, as though grasping for something just outside his reach. He raised it – held his arm above the mattress for just a moment -- before the effort ended. He looked and sounded utterly exhausted.

_“Goodbye…”_

“No,” John gasped. “No, Paul…”

Jim reached out a hand, grasping John’s wrist and stilling him as he shook his head.

“Are you still with us, Paul? Are you with us, son?”

They could see his adam’s apple move up and down as the pale lad swallowed hugely.

“He’s coming up,” one of the nurses said excitedly.

 _“Da…”_ Paul croaked, his arm raised again, reaching out.

Jim grabbed at it, squeezing his hand. “I’m here, son. I’m right here with you. We’re all here.”

And with that, Paul McCartney finally seemed to surface, his eyelashes first fluttering and then parting – closing and parting, over and over -- his eyes opening a little bit wider each time, until their rich chocolate-and-honey coloring showed in the light.

“Paul!” Jim McCartney and John both exclaimed as one.

“Paul…you’re here!” John sobbed, unable to stop his grateful tears.

“There you are, my boy,” Jim said, sounding old and gruff and tender, all at once.

“Da…”

“Yes, I’m here.”

It seemed Paul was not quite with them, yet. His eyes were unfocused as he stared at his father. “Da…”

Jim brought Paul’s hand up to his own cheek and nodded. “Yes. Here I am, then.”

Paul frowned then, as if confused, as though he was just waking up.

“Wha-- Da?”

“Paul. You’re awake. I’m right here.”

His son, his beautiful son, looked directly at him, and suddenly there he was, fully cognizant, recognition dawning on his face, which instantly crumbled. Tears rushed to Paul’s eyes. “Da…” he whispered, trying to move forward, trying to hug his father.

Jim McCartney breached the distance, pressing his head to his son’s, wrapping his arms around him as best he could. Making those soft Irish sounds of consolation that went beyond actual words, Jim leaned in, finally managing to bring Paul fully into his embrace amid all the tubes and wires. He hugged his son closely. “I’ve got you, son.”

“Da…”

“Sesh, shesh you, boyo.”

It went on like that. Jim McCartney murmuring nothing words to his son, Paul burying his face into his father’s neck, his voice strained, seeming incapable of doing anything beyond calling out to him.

With every repetition, though, John noticed Paul’s breath going deeper, as though he were working himself up to something.

“Da…”

“Yes, Paul, I’m here. You’re going to be alright, now.”

“Da…” Paul breathed, and then his voice cracked and went high, became a weeping, keening sound. _“Daddy.”_

“Yes… my boy…”

“Daddy…”

“Oh, Paul…”

“They hurt me…oh... so bad, Daddy…”

And then both men were bawling. Crying together within their embrace.

“Daddy…how…”

“It’s going to be alright, Paulie…it will…”

John was wiping his tears away with both sleeves. The scene was so poignant and raw it was ripping him to shreds.

Paul was back. He was back, thank God, he was back.

But he was a wreck.

And he had called out, “Daddy” and his daddy had answered, “Here I am!”

John couldn’t have said why he was crying – whether for the return of his beloved Paul or the knowledge that if he cried out for love, for reassurance, for safety, no man would ever say “here I am” to him. Not unless it was Paul, himself… someday, someday, again.

But the tears would not stop.

He wasn’t alone in that. The nurses, deeply moved by the reunion played out before them, had receded into the background -- sniffling and smiling and holding each other in the way that women do. At his side, he was aware that Cynthia was touching him, pulling him back, away from the scene. Away from the shoulders -- the shuddering shoulders, those words, wept out, again and again, “Da… _Daddy_ …”

She led her husband to the doorway, crowded now with faces, all of them covered in tears. Ringo and George were sharing a tight and weepy embrace. Jane’s face was nearly unrecognizable, swollen and contorted with emotion, and she was reaching out to Brian.

The group made room for him to enter, but he hesitated a moment, looking back at Paul and his father. He pulled aside the drapes, re-opening the observation window and letting light into the room.

It was enough to see, to keep a watch on Paul. They didn’t need to hear the exchange between father and son. Whatever the actual words between them, John thought, all they were really saying to each other was all that ever needed saying:

“Daddy, my Daddy”

And, “My son. Oh, my son.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this chapter, you know what's going to finally happen? _Tomorrow_. Tomorrow is going to happen, because this long, long day -- which was engulfed six whole chapters -- has come to an end. And there will be a tomorrow, just like John has asked for.


	20. George Goes into Battle Mode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Harrison is all alone with Paul, keeping watch over him in the wee small hours, when suddenly something goes very wrong with Macca. Nurses go running and a top doctor is called and Paul is rushed into surgery way before they've gotten control over his infection. The wait is like doing hard time, but George wants it hard, and he wants to do it alone. It turns out there is a battle going on, and it's one that George is attuned to, and wants to fight, especially while Paul -- his beloved friend for so long -- seems to be the actual battlefield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone in the comments section -- actually a few in the comments -- asked for "a nice long chapter." Well...you've got it and I hope you like it. I'm sorry it took a week but it was difficult to find my way into and then you know...life and stuff. Anyway, I really hope you like this. There is a little bit of a religious thing going on because  
> a) This is George-centric and  
> b) that weird priest shows up again.  
> But I hope their time together is entertaining for you, rather than annoying.  
> As ever, thank you so much for reading this, and a special thanks to all who comment. When I was really struggling to begin this chapter, looking back on your kind words and encouragements really helped me.

It was 3AM and George Harrison was all alone, sitting on the floor outside of an operating room as he smoked and wondered why praying – which had seemed so easy when he was kid and should still have been easy when it was for someone he loved – had begun to feel so hard.

He loved Paul. A lot. More, he believed, than Paul could ever know, because Paul could often be oblivious, especially since meeting John.

It hadn’t always been that way but yeah. Since meeting John.

“And John should be here, right now,” George’s inner voice was telling him, but he couldn’t bring himself to run to a phone and tell John to get down here because Paul had begun bleeding out so bad that surgery could no longer be put off.

He told himself he was being responsible about it – that John was already the worst driver in the United Kingdom and to risk him speeding back into London for Paul’s sake -- when he was already so exhausted -- was to risk losing two Beatles, when just losing one would be enough to send the world into spasms of wild grief.

As arguments went, it was sound enough, George knew, and he intended to use it when, tomorrow (later today, really) John returned to the hospital and demanded to know why he had not been called when things had gone so dire.

But the truth was, George wanted to be there just now. He wanted this watch, wanted to keep this anxious vigil over his friend – his stupid, sometimes totally unmindful best friend – and he wanted to do it alone. He didn’t want to share it with John and become “the other guy who was there for Paul.” He wanted to be the main guy, the first friend there for Macca.

That guy.

Did that make him a bad person, he wondered? To feel selfish about sharing anxiety about someone? To be singular and ungenerous in allowing others to keep a watch over someone they loved, too?

Well, it if did, then he was a bad person, and that’s all there was to it. Because just this once, even if Paul was unconscious through it, he wanted an experience to be just him and Paul McCartney. Like it used to be.

Yeah, he loved Paul. As he sat, legs crossed, leaning against the wall and counting the coffee stains on the floor, he considered how different his world would have been without that exasperating black-haired boy in his life. He’d still be a musician, he thought, but probably one that never left Merseyside. He’d probably have a guitar repair shop and play pub nights and maybe weekends at small venues, and he’d feel pretty content with that.

But without Paul, he’d never have been a Beatle – would never have dared to talk to a mad rottweiler of a Teddy like John Lennon, who (it had to be said) would likely have been the guy getting thrown out of those very pubs for fighting – if he wasn’t already dead – had it not been for Paul coming along just when he did, and then bringing George in right behind him.

He loved Lennon, too. Sometimes he thought he loved John as much or even more than he loved Paul, but differently. Less like a brother, more like the worshipful student of a renegade hero, or a poet-hero. Something heroic, for sure. But even hero-worship couldn’t ignore that it was Paul who had inspired and helped train the musicianship, the artistry, that George so admired in John Lennon. Who had not just taught John how to tune a guitar and play some chords but had brought something like real structure to John’s unending capacity for chaotic self-destruction.

Without Paul, there would be no George, and no John. It was as simple as that. Ringo and Paul might have become something individually; they both had a way of seeing opportunities, and something at their cores that was tougher than most would suspect.

But sitting by himself, outside an operating theatre, George understood down to his bones how – at that very moment -- the beating heart of the Beatles was currently shuddering under a stranger’s knife, from the days-long trauma inflicted upon the body it was meant to sustain.

If Paul were to die, they would all go on, somehow. They were all known, now, and connected. They’d carve out careers of sorts. But as Beatles? He couldn’t see that, not without Paul.

And so, yes, George wanted to be solitary right now, outside this surgery, wanted it – needed it – to be just him and Paulie. Just this one time. Maybe for the last time, ever, because even if Macca pulled through this, George doubted he’d ever be permitted to get close to him again. Not if the way John Lennon and Jane Asher were behaving was any indication.

It had been such a long day, yesterday, George thought, full of so much drama – too much. It felt like enough drama to last a year, and it stunned him to consider that in reality he and Ringo had only been enduring it for what, two days and a half? John and Brian for two days more than that? It felt so much longer, so much harder than that, and as he’d looked around the waiting room earlier that day, he’d thought that everyone -- most of them not yet 25 years old -- had aged nearly beyond recognition.

But that was just his fancy, he knew, because he was awfully tired, himself.

Paul had been so briefly awake, and he’d left them all feeling raw and wounded by the sound of his poor, broken voice – that beautiful instrument -- unable to do more than whimper a cracked-sounding “Daddy” as he wept into his father’s neck.

His eyes stung, even now, to recall it. George thought he might never get over that sound, the sound of Paul McCartney, utterly broken. The cute one, the sunny one, the ever-optimistic, boyish one, sounding like he was calling out from a cavern of hell that would leave him forever crippled -- change him, forever.

Oh, God. _Paulie._

But Macca had fallen back to sleep very quickly after that, a sound and deep sleep, with his father holding his hand and sitting by his side, keeping his agonized face trained only on his son.

A doctor had come in, checked Paul’s vitals and asked about how he had seemed while awake. He refused to agree that the lad’s speaking a few words was anything more than a “hopeful” sign. “Don’t read too much into it just yet,” he’d counselled. “This young man has a very long way to go before we will say he is out of danger. But yes, this is hopeful.”

Hopeful. Did the word really mean anything in this context?

“ _Hope is the thing with feathers--_ ” George suddenly pulled the line from somewhere in his subconscious. It was a poem, he thought, though he couldn’t remember where he’d learned it. Was it Byron? Lewis Carroll? He didn’t know but there it was, in his brain.

> _Hope is the thing with feathers_
> 
> _That perches in the soul –_
> 
> _And sings the tune without the words –_
> 
> _And never stops – at all –_

That sounded like a good lyric, actually.

And… it sort of sounded like Paul himself, too, didn’t it? Paul McCartney. The thing with wings. George couldn’t help but wonder if they’d been permanently clipped, now.

The doctor’s uttered word, “Hopeful” had been enough for all of them – most of them – to consider it permission to leave the hospital, to go home and get some sleep. Jim McCartney, who had an innate dislike of drama, had been nagged at by Jane Asher to come home with her, but he seemed to want the straight-headed, unemotional company of John Dawson, who had offered him a room in his residence suite. Dawson said he had work to do there, anyway, and he had taken the old man away at a reasonable time. The rest had followed, except John, who had taken Jim’s place at Paul’s bedside and refused to move.

“John, come, please,” Cynthia had begged. “You’re exhausted, and there is nothing you can do for him if you fall sick yourself.”

But John had merely shaken his head no, and given her waist a squeeze. “You go home. Come again tomorrow, though, aye, Cyn? I need to be here.”

“I can stay,” Jane had offered, still sounding annoyed at John, and George had sensed in her the same sort of jealousy he knew was fueling his own lonely vigil. She wanted some of Paul, too. Or maybe, he thought, she just didn’t want to seem like she cared less than John.

Which actually -- particularly after what he’d witnessed just about twenty-two hours earlier -- seemed very likely to George. It wasn’t that Jane cared less about Paul than John did. Only that she couldn’t possibly care _more_ than John. Perhaps not even as much.

Geo had gone home, like everyone else, after offering to stay with John. He’d wrapped himself around Patti, who cried and cried when she heard the news – and George had tried to spare her much of it. And he’d cried too, and thought he’d be able to join her when the pretty lass had finally drifted off to sleep.

But sleep wouldn’t come. The whole day’s revelations and its scares and small victories were replaying in his head. And Paulie’s face, so familiar, looking so ghostly white, his eyes closed, lips just opened as they nearly always were. Looking too much like death to allow something as passive as sleep to come.

It was pointless. He'd scribbled out a note for Pats and gone back to the hospital. He wasn’t sure he should enter at this hour, but “screw it,” he thought. “Screw visiting hours. _I’m a Beatle_.”

He’d entered the room as a sister was just leaving, she putting a finger to her lips, tossing her head toward the bed.

Paul looked unchanged. John was still in the chair, his head resting on the mattress with one arm for support. He was sound asleep. But Paul’s fingertips were just grazing Lennon’s head – as though he had awoken long enough to get his bearings, and had stroked John’s hair before falling back to sleep.

Or, George thought, it could just be an accident. Either way, he didn’t want to disturb them.

The chair that had been on the other side of Paul’s bed had been moved away, probably by the nurses who needed access, and he tried to bring it forward without making a sound.

Well, that didn’t work. His small scrape on the floor bothered Paul who moved a little restlessly, making that wincing face George wished would go away. “John?” the lad had breathed out, eyes still closed.

That was enough to stir his sleeping partner, whose eyes fluttered halfway open as his head came up. “Baby...I'm here, love..."

 _Baby…_ in all these years he’d never heard John call his partner “Baby” in the way he had since the attack, and with such a gentle tone of…what was it? Adoration-like? Yeah, maybe that.

Paul didn’t answer. He just seemed to sigh deeply and fall back to sleep, and the dog-tired John followed suit.

George tried again, moving the heavy wooden chair over a few scant inches, away from the wall, and toward the bed. He heard Paul’s voice again, rough-sounding but also a tinge hopeful, too. _That thing with feathers._ “John?”

John snorted awake. He barely managed to open his eyes this time, but he brought Macca’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “Alright, my love?” And then he was gone again, still holding Paul’s hand.

Paul inhaled, very deeply.

 _“Johnny…”_ It was sent out on a breath of relief. The sound of sweet completion. As though what Paul really meant to say was, _“Oh, there you are. I’ve found you, love, and now all is right.”_

Or, maybe like, “ _I have found him whom my soul loves…and will not let him go…_ ”

Was that another poem? Or maybe scripture? He didn’t know the source but he completely understood the meaning. He heard the full-on sentence, in all of its colors, that had been packed into Paul’s gently breathed word: _Johnny._

George sat down where he was, not daring to move the chair again, and looked his friends over with only one thought ringing through his mind. _Holy Christ. They’re in love with each other. Paul and John are in love._

He frowned deeply as he processed this new knowledge, this wholly, entirely new thought. _They love each other_.

Like…real love.

Yeah, they’ve always been close. Yeah, George himself had come to think of them as probably soulmates -- two gears that only fit with each other, and necessarily so, in order to power the Machine called The Beatles. But he’d never considered love.

 _That_ kind of love.

_In love._

But now, it seemed kind of obvious, didn’t it?

Recalling that moment of understanding, George lit another cigarette and began to pace the hallway, looking into the operating room and seeing nothing but lights and masked, gloved bodies, and the memories and images began to flow.

Paul, on the bus to school, chattering to George about meeting this Teddy Boy “he’s so cool…”

Paul’s back pressed to John’s as they played a raucous lunchtime set in Liverpool.

John, watching Paul quietly walk away after being served up some Lennonesque sarcasm and then throwing his ciggie aside and following him, a guilty look on his face.

Paul, leaping off a piano bench in Hamburg and throwing himself at Stu, the two of them throwing punches and really hurting each other while the band played on. Supposedly about Astrid, or about Stu playing poorly.

No, it had been about John, and having his attention. They’d all known it, if none dared to say it.

Paul and John, as drunk as they’d ever been, stuck in a Key West motel with Ringo and George, who were equally pissed -- all of them weeping “I love you,” to each other between shots and then using bedsheets to make an impromptu wedding dress for John because the partners had lost some bet and were now pretending to get married. Hazza as Best Man; Ringo as Officiant.

John slobbering, “I want…I want to be a bride jus’ once, even though Macca’s more beau—more beau—more p-prettier.”

And Paul, laughing himself sick, a snorkel and goggle on his head “Dis me tophat, a fishy tale if ever!” He’d pronounced.

And Ringo, trying to get them to repeat the filthiest vows ever written (“I plight thee my troth and my frothy cock with its entire scrotum”) which no one could pronounce for laughing, until John had finally slurred, “Yer my husban’” and grabbed Macca by the chin, planting a sloppy kiss somewhere in the general neighborhood of his partner’s lips, before passing out.

Ringo, observing for the hundredth time, “They spat like an old married couple, and we’re like the kids.” _Had Ringo figured it out?_

Paul, throwing a smile to John at the mic. John catching it and just gazing and gazing back at Macca.

It had been there all along, and George had missed it. How was that possible? He remembered them smiling at each other and then following each other to bed, making excuses about the lateness of the hour, and the early wake-up times.

He remembered stumbling drunkenly into a suite once to find them in bathrobes, asleep on the couch and completely snuggled up to each other while the television blared. He’d just assumed they’d been knackered and ended up reaching out to each other in sleep, as he’d done himself -- plenty of times -- to both of them.

_John and Paul are lovers._

He’d been so innocent. And the evidence had been there even a few weeks ago, but George hadn’t put things together. The band had been rehearsing for a live program in the evening, and Paul had just finished singing “Yesterday” accompanied only by his own acoustic guitar. It was a nice enough song, George had always thought. A bit of a trifle, but the sweetness of the melody, coupled with Paul’s plaintive vocal, raised it a cut above most. He’d never understood John’s almost visceral aversion to the band’s recording it.

And when Paul had finished, John had done one of those rude slow-hand-claps, and Paul’s face had flushed deeply red, almost to purple, as he packed away his guitar. “They’ll love that sentimental shite in Surry, yeah,” Lennon had drawled as crewmembers and staff had gasped. “You keep that up, son, and you might yet be this generation’s Irving Berlin, you might!”

Macca had stood there for a moment, head down, and then pivoted in John’s direction. “A word in the dressing room, Lennon. Now, please,” and had walked off the stage directly. Because Paul never publicly embarrassed John the way John constantly seemed to do to Paul.

There had been a row, then, a bad one. Loud enough for voices to carry, although not to make out the words. Paul must have been furious because it took a lot to get him yelling and he was really belting out. John’s voice, initially quite loud, grew increasingly quiet. And then there was silence for a few minutes, and Paul came out, red-eyed, and said something about getting some air and some chocolate.

A few minutes later, John had come out, looking spooked, his eyes red and swollen and his skin blotchy. He’d leaned against the wall and released a shuddery breath as he lit a cigarette and then shrugged at George. “How was I supposed to know it had become a song about his mum, for him?”

His voice had broken then, and Hazza had stood there awkwardly, watching John try to find his composure as he sobbed out his regret. “I didn’t mean to hurt him, I never do, you know…I’m such a bastard.”

George had shrugged and lit his own cigarette because there was really no way to disagree on that last point without lying.

And he still hadn’t put it together the next night, when flowers had been delivered specifically to Paul – who was besotted with flowers and was always shoving his head into bouquets and sniffing them – and the bassist had been sporting a really lovely new pair of cufflinks.

_They’re in love. John loves Paul._

_They’re a couple. Paul loves John._

Well, he’d never try to get in the way of that, George thought as he decided to spread himself out on the sofa in the waiting room. But he’d never be able to compete for either of their affections anymore, that was for sure. 

And then the day had been filled with so much drama. Stupid drama, like Jane walking in on John bathing a barely conscious Paul and insisting he hand over the sponge.

Sad drama, like old Jim McCartney speaking quietly to doctors and even more quietly to Paul, and sitting across from Lennon, each of them holding one hand and avoiding the other’s eyes.

Melodrama, as news personalities interviewed some of the fans keeping vigil outside and heard general promises of mass suicide and broken hearts. “If Paul dies, I can’t live. I’ll kill myself!” And even “Why couldn’t it be John?”

Well, _that_ was amusing, actually.

And then, there had been some really bad drama. A pile of letters and messages had been rolled into the waiting area, a glaring manila envelope on top simply addressed to “Brian Epstein, Manager”. Dawson, ever-alert, had reached for it at the same time as Eppy and their eyes met over it. The detective broke the seal and slipped what was obviously a photograph a little way out before shaking his head in disgust and resealing it. Brian looked as though he was swaying at what he’d seen. 

“Filthy bastards,” he’d whispered, but no one besides George had seen, and his words were simply accepted as a ruminative fact by the rest. Filthy bastards had gathered them all together like this.

Dawson had the thing tucked into his vest. A few moments later, he was out the door with it, undoubtedly passing it along to… whoever. The queen? MI5? George had no idea. He couldn’t even think about those photos getting out.

The photos were “bad” John had told him. “I wish I’d never seen them. Paulie never deserved it.”

Remembering it now, he was glad neither John nor Jim had been around to see that little scene play out between Eppy and Dawson. He could imagine both of them insisting on seeing it – feeling entitled to, one as father and the other as…well, partner, yeah, but…no, not as a boyfriend, but maybe, kind of, a _spouse_?”

Paul had slept the day away, as the nurses assured them all he _should_ do, given his condition and blood loss. So many medical staffers and fans had donated blood that the hospital was well-supplied, but Cyn and Jane and Jim had all insisted on donating as well.

And then there had been nothing to do but wait for every update interval, when the sisters would either give a thumbs up – meaning Paul’s temperature was a little bit lower – or a thumbs down, meaning it was unchanged.

George tried to remember now, how many thumbs up he’d seen throughout the day, and how many thumbs down.

Waiting was exhausting, and this time, unlike the night before, when George insisted that John go home with Cynthia and get a good night’s sleep, there was no argument. Lennon was truly dead on his feet.

Everyone had kissed Paul goodnight, even Ringo and Eppy -- and Dawson, of all people -- and then George had settled in for what he thought would be a long and uneventful night.

But then Paul had begun to gasp and thrash about on his bed, letting out a low and ragged moan, and the sister in attendance had gone rushing out, calling an alert. The bleeding, mostly staunched for the past day, had sped up and he was hemorrhaging badly.

They’d rushed him to the operating room with George trailing behind, begging to know what was happening. “Isn’t it too soon? Can you do this when he’s got fever?”

A kind, quite elderly sister had taken a moment to sit with him, as Paul was whisked through doors and out of his reach. “These are not the best conditions,” she’d confessed to him. “We had all hoped to have the infection fully beaten back before operating. This will be more complicated, but… things work out sometimes. We will hope for that. One of the finest surgeons in London will be here very quickly to attend.”

She’d seen the fear in George’s face and patted his hand. “I know it is frightening to hear, son. Your friend is truly in God’s hands, now. But we will do our every possible not to let him go.”

That had been over an hour ago. It was after six in the morning, now, and so far, no word. And no prayers beyond the very basic words he’d managed to muster, “God, save his life.”

He heard a heavy step, the click of heals on the terrazzo flooring, and looked up, hoping to see a white coat advancing, and yet dreading it, too.

Instead, he saw a man all dressed in black, a half-awake expression on his face. It was that priest. O’Flynn or something, the one who’d prayed Last Rites over Paul. He was peering through the observation window, into the operating theater and whispering some words in Latin, stepping back to make a blessing broad enough to cover both doors.

He nearly stepped on George, who had resumed his seat on the floor. “Oh,” he said softly. “Hello. Is that your friend in there, James Paul?”

George nodded. “Well, he’s one of my own anointed boys, then, isn’t he? Gets an extra prayer, that.” The young priest turned back to the door, bowing his bead again and repeating what sounded like the same prayer three times. Geo had caught an ‘ora pro nobis’ three times, anyway.

When he had finished his prayers, the priest made a point of sliding down the wall, planting himself beside George and tossing his head at the cigarette in his hand. “You wouldn’t have one to spare, would you? We're nearin' the month's end, and my stipend is down to pennies.”

George handed him a cigarette and offered a light.

“I thank ye. American, yeah?”

“I think so,” Hazza frowned. “I could be smokin’ rope, for all I know right now.”

“Aye, you get disoriented when you spend much time in a hospital, especially when things are grave. How is your friend doing?”

“Do you really not know who he is?” George couldn’t help asking. “You act like you don’t, but I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“I’ve seen the papers the last day so be sure, I do now. Last time, you know, I knew he was a Beatle, but I’d never caught just which one of you was which. Except your drummer, Ringo, right?”

George chuckled. “Yeah, Ringo, he’s hard to confuse with anyone else.”

The priest laughed as well, smoking deeply. “You need a chair, lad?”

George shook his head. “Call me a penitent. I can’t figure out how to pray, so I’ll be uncomfortable and offer--”

“Offer it up, good man.” It came with another laugh, “You’re a right Job, you are, sitting on the ground, covering yourself with ash – albeit from your own ciggie – and wondering how in hell you’re meant to talk to a God who seems to be so capricious in all his mysterious and myriad ways, yes?

Hazza didn’t know what to make of the man, who was unlike any priest he’d ever met. Young, pasty Irish, slightly balding.

“You said ‘hell’” was all he could manage, realizing immediately that he sounded like a five year-old.

“Aye, me fuckin’ mouth,” Fr. Sean Flynn agreed, wincing a little. “I’m a farmboy, you know. Never could guard me tongue. Had to come to England to get ordained, didn’t I, because Maynooth threw me out. Yash, sure, you laugh,” he continued. “It’s God’s own truth. And didn’t me Ma threaten to not come see me put through my paces because English Catholics will be forever suspect in her mind?”

“Well, perhaps with good reason,” George laughed. “In Liverpool the Catholics are everywhere but in the pews, you know.”

“Shesh, Liverpool,” the priest made a dismissive noise. “I never heard of so many brides goin’ up the aisle with a baby near to poppin’ out, and the groom barely standin’ for the drink." He grew suddenly serious. "Now, as to your friend in there,” he lowered his voice. “I’m thinkin’ you’re here alone in this early hour because somethin’ went haywire and this was unscheduled.”

Taking another pull of his ciggie, George gave a solemn nod. “It’s bad. He’s still got a fever, but he was hemorrhaging. They had to…but it’s bad. I have a bad feeling about it.”

The priest nodded back. “So, that’s why my guardian angel pulled me out of bed by the scruff of the neck and brought me over here.”

“Sorry,” George shook his head, “What?”

“Well, I’m not usually here so early. But sometimes I can’t sleep, you know? And today was my one day to sleep in, for the pastor himself is sayin’ the 7 o’clock Mass, aye, but I was tossin’ and turnin’. Finally said, “fuck it all…erm, screw it all,” he corrected himself with a wry smile. “Figured there must be someone around here could use some prayers.”

“So, you just came in and went to the OR?”

“Well, first I went to the emergency sector, but it’s quiet there. That’s how I do. I go there first, see if anyone needs a prayer or the Rites, and then I come by here, and pray for whoever’s in surgery, and the surgeons and sisters, and such. Anyone whose hand will touch him with the intent to heal. I pray for ‘em all. Right now, your friend is the only surgery happenin’. So, he gets all the prayer, doesn’t he?”

“Well, that’s good.” George decided. “I’m pretty sure he needs every one of ‘em.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes and then the priest inclined his head toward George’s as he spoke very softly. “You needn’t tell me if you don’t want. In fact, I’ll even give you a dispensation to lie to me, if you feel you must for the lad’s own privacy. But I have to ask, because it will actually help to direct my prayer. He never cracked his head open, did he?”

George looked at him, swallowing hugely. “How’d you know?”

“I’m not blind, you know. I didn’t notice a head wound when I was anointing him.”

Looking at his shoes for a moment, George decided he liked this priest enough to trust him.

“No, it’s not that.” He took out two more cigarettes, offering another to Flynn. “It’s… he was…” Lighting both ciggies he sat back, a look of wonder on his face. “God, I don’t even know how to say this to you.”

“M’ name’s Sean, you know. Just say ‘Sean, here’s what happened’.”

Harrison took a big breath and then dared to let the words loose from his tongue. “Sean, here’s what happened. He was raped. And not by just one man. We don’t even know how many. He was drugged at a… a gathering, and then taken against his will and he was raped.” George found his throat constricting as he felt his eyes watering up. “And I know it’s worse than what I’ve been told. I don’t even know the whole thing of it,” he was babbling now. “And he doesn’t deserve this, he’s a _good lad_ , you know? He’s—he’s… he’s not _bad_ , he’s _good_. I mean, aye, he is a pig with the birds, takin’ ‘em on like a feckin’ bull put to stud, but we all are, you know. But he’s _good_. He’s no malice in him at all. I’ve known him since we were eleven, twelve years old and he’s always been…just a good lad.”

George wiped his nose on his sleeve, not noticing the priest’s proffered handkerchief. “You know, you talk about your guardian angel and all that – it all sounds like a nice fairy tale, yeah,” he hissed, not wanting his voice to carry. “But where was his fuckin’ angel, sorry… where was his fuckin’ angel when this happened, aye? _Where?_ Because they battered the hell out of him, and he might die and he’s never deserved it. When he was a lad and his mum died, he took over the house, did you know that, doin’ all the cookin’ and cleanin’?”

The priest shook his head, his lips pursed as he listened intently.

“Aye, his da lost his head over it and was barely able to get through a day. He was drinkin’ too, and many’s the day Paul would get on the bus to school with a black eye or holdin’ on to his ribs like they hurt, and he’d never say a word against his father, aye? He’d just... shake his head, like he didn’t want to talk about it and then he’d smile and talk about music or some bird.” George gulped, feeling the need to clarify. “I don’t mean girls, I mean real birds. He liked to watch ‘em. Never anythin’ so boring as Macca goin’ on about some bluebird…”

“He sounds like a lovely lad,” Flynn agreed. “And no, of course he doesn’t deserve what has happened to him. No one deserves evil being visited upon them. And what you’ve described to me is truly evil.”

“Well, then what?” George spat out. “How do you sit there, and talk about evil and prayer and angels and all that, when a fella who’s never done worse than shovin’ his cock into women who are beggin’ him to do it, is…is…”

“Is made to hang between heaven and earth while good and evil do battle over him.”

“Aye!” Harrison snarled, really feeling his rage. “Aye! It’s like God’s amusin’ himself, playing a feckin’ game with the life of my friend.”

Sean Flynn shook his head in understanding. He cleared his throat as though to say something, but remained silent.

“Well? Nothin’ to say to that? No answers, then?”

He watched the priest rest his head against the wall, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling.

“You know about Jesus, right?”

“What?” George’s patience was at an end.

“Jesus of Nazareth? Jewish guy? Mocked and crucified back in the day? Second person of the Trinity? Lord and Savior?”

“Are you mockin’ me?”

“No, I’m absolutely and emphatically not mockin' you, son. But I was thinkin’ maybe the best way I can answer you is to ask you this? When he was hangin’ on the cross, this innocent man, who’d been lied about and tortured and betrayed, who were his neighbors?”

George frowned at the priest as though he were a madman. “Well, his mum. And the other Mary, and… _Peter_ …I think?”

“No, no, Peter ran away, terrified of the mobs. There’s yer first pope, for ye. No, John, the youngest one, he was the only one who stayed, along with the Marys. But they were not his neighbors, they were his family and close friends. His neighbors up on the cross were thieves. Convicted, they were, aye?”

“What’s your point, then,” the question was nearly acidic in tone.

“My point is, wherever there is great goodness, you will also find evil nearby. And opportunistic evil. There is a great battle, son, and it goes on all about us, unseen, at every moment, and sometimes it spills into our realm, our… out material atmosphere, if you will, and some become harmed by the darkness, and some become blessed by the light.” Flynn shrugged. “Sometimes it’s even the same person, at the same time, because the whole fuckin’ thing is so mysterious, aye? Sometimes the things we think are blessings are actually not, haven’t you found? Seems to me I have. And sometimes the horrors turn out to be blessings when looked at from a distance. It’s all between the forces of light and the forces of the dark, though. Beware of darkness.”

George forced himself to seriously consider the priest’s words, but only because one thing he’d said was ringing his bell, loud and clear. “I guess I get that, a little,” he admitted. “We thought being bigger than Elvis was going to be the… the ‘toppermost’, you know? ‘Toppermost of the poppermost’, we used to say -- the greatest thing we could ever have or want to have. And yeah, it’s been… great. But… in a lot of ways, it’s been awful for us, too. And probably to us. What was it you said, 'opportunistic evil' yeah. We've been dragged about by some of that. It’s like we’ve all lost a bit of ourselves. It hasn’t been free.”

“Nothin’ is free, lad, save grace.”

“Well, I don’t know what grace is,” George’s voice rose a bit. “And I’ll be damned if I’ll ever see how any bit of what’s happened to Paul can ever, ever show itself to be any sort of a blessing, or a mercy or whatever you’re sayin’… not in this life or the next. But I believe that things do have a kind of balance to them. Like you said, Jesus bein’ between thieves. Light and darkness always fightin’ it out. But even then…Jesus was _good_ and he was murdered and he didn’t deserve it. The thieves…” George’s frown was deep yet thoughtful. “If they were _only_ thieves, they didn’t really deserve it, either, did they?”

“In the realm of divine justice and divine mercy, son, I’d say ‘no’ – they probably didn’t earn that hellacious death for their crimes.”

“Well, what’s the answer, then? Is it all just random shit we’ve got to endure? Some get the light, some don’t? It’s not enough Paul loses his mum when he’s a kid, and his dad goes mental? He’s got to have this, too?”

“Well, the truth is, in terms of justice, there really is only one thing that’s inarguable: No one gets out of this life without some measure of real suffering. No one, not me or you, not your mates. Not the Virgin herself,” Flynn said, “and she never did a wrong thing in her life. She still got her turn at suffering. Imagine watchin' yer son die like that." He shook his head and let that sink in for both of them.

And then, “Let me ask you,” the priest gave a little smile of embarrassment, “you’re George, right?”

George just looked at him, as though he were pathetic. “That’s me,” he sighed.

“Well, I don’t know,' Flynn said defensively. "I’ve not had the time to _study_ you fellas, have I? But let me ask you… _George_. Is there anyone on earth you’d wish would experience what has befallen your man Paul this week?”

“Christ, no!” Harrison was horrified. “There’s no one could ever deserve it. Hitler? Maybe Hitler!”

Flynn shrugged, his eyebrows rising in agreement. “Aye, maybe him. If we want to see such savagery inflicted upon anyone, then maybe him. But then, here's the thing: what would such a desire make of us all, in the end?”

“Oh, I don’t know, monsters? Are we all monsters like what went after our Macca? I just want this…I just want this all to go away, and for Paul to get better. I want everything to go back to normal.”

“I suspect you’re all of you in for some new sort of ‘normal’ after this. But, will you do somethin’ for me?”

“What? Here, take the pack,” George shoved the nearly empty packet of cigarettes at the priest, who chuckled and took them gladly. “Well, thank you but, I meant somethin’ different.”

“What, then?”

“Well, yer Catholic, right? Or were you lyin’ like your mate the other day?”

George couldn’t repress a small smile. “John? How’d you know?”

“Pheh!” Flynn answered. “Couldn’t even make a proper sign of the cross, then, could he?”

“No, he made a right balls of it, actually.”

“Aye, _twice_. But that’s fine, he loves his mate and wanted to help, I got that. But I have you here, now, young Catholic lad. Would you do me the favor of just sittin’ with me, right now, in prayer?”

“I’ve been trying to pray, Father,” George fell into the old habit of address. “I can’t do it.”

“Oh, aye, you can. And call me Sean, if you will. But I don’t mean to put you on the spot and get you to show me your childhood whisperin’s. Just... sit with me a minute, aye? And put the idea of God’s heavenly light into your mind. And then ask it to shine down on your friend in there, Paul. And on the doctors and sisters workin’ on him? Can you do that with me? For a minute?”

“That’s like… meditation, isn’t it?”

Flynn found himself mirroring Harrison’s earlier glance at him -- the same look that said, ‘you’re hopeless.’

“Aye, it’s _like_ meditation because it _is_ meditation. We Christians do that, too, you know…quite good at it, we are, quite practiced -- ”

“Alright, alright, priest. Don’t make a production of it.” George tried not to take offense at the delighted cackle he heard at his side.

“Aye, then. Let’s close our eyes, and ask for the healing light and love of the Creator and the divine physician to rain down upon James Paul…”

George felt weird about it. He’d done some Eastern meditation and rather liked it, but he’d never tried it from any other perspective. Still, the notion was familiar enough to him, and he was able – after stealing a glace at the priest to see if he was actually doing it, himself – to envision light, shining down from heaven, directed toward Paul, lying there in the operating theatre and surrounded by all the unknown, masked people with him, there. Paul’s face in slumber, so sweet and familiar to George. Himself all lit up, like the main event in a circus.

And he begged the light to shine on his friend and heal him, and make him whole, and ‘give him peace.’

It was only a minute, a little sliver of something graceful and positive in the midst of so much that was dis-spiriting and awful. When he raised his head, Sean Flynn was raising his own. He turned and smiled at George.

“You sing, right?”

George looked at the priest in disbelief for a moment, and then shook his head, laughing at him. “Aye, sure then, Father Sean, _I sing.”_

Sean nudged him. “Well, then. Augustine said ‘who sings prays twice’. Or maybe it was Aquinas. I always get them confused. Anyhow, remember this one?” And then, in as clear and sweet a tenor George had ever heard outside of Paul, himself, the young man quietly intoned a song Geo had learned in his childhood, one meant to be sung in a round.

“ _Dona nobis pacem…Dona nobis pacem”_ Give us peace. Give us peace.

At the end of the first round, George joined in. “Dona nobis pacem,” _Give us peace, give Paul peace._

So engrossed did they become within the song that neither men heard the steps of the surgeon as he approached. When they opened their eyes, he was simply standing there, gazing at the two of them through his glasses, as though they were new and messy creatures in his tidy medical world.

“I’m Doctor Warren. I’m told you’re here for Mr. McCartney,” he said to George who, stiff from sitting so long on the floor, was being helped up by the priest.

“How is he? Is he alright? Is he going to be?” George found he couldn’t waste time on niceties as his anxiety surged.

The surgeon was a very calm sort. He simply nodded his head, as if to acknowledge George’s worry, and then folded his arms across his chest. “A great deal of work putting that young man back together,” he said. “I’ve been a surgeon for almost thirty years, and have seen combat wounds and more, and I’ve seldom seen that much reckless damage visited on anyone. More stitching than I care to tell you and he is going to have a long, uncomfortable recovery.”

“But he will recover?” He almost dared not to ask the question.

Warren compressed his lips into a thin line, as though he were unwilling to let a wrong word pass his lips. “Performing surgery while there is infection is never what we want--”

“Yes, I know, I know,” Geo interrupted. “I know. It’s bad. Did…the abscess wall break?”

The surgeon put a hand on the guitarist’s shoulder. “Compared to his admission chart, it was much reduced. It did burst, but I think with a different antibiotic, which I’ve already ordered for him, we may avoid his becoming septic. The next twenty-four hours are crucial. They’ll tell us whether we win or lose this battle.”

“It is a battle, then,” Hazza repeated the word.

The doctor nodded once, very definitively. “It is, indeed. But I am hopeful.”

“That’s all anyone ever says to us, that they’re hopeful…” _Hope is the thing with wings…_ ran quickly through his head, and he removed Warren’s hand from his shoulder. “I have no idea what to think of that. It sounds like everyone is just saying the safe thing. But it’s empty. It’s not really an answer, is it?”

“Would it be helpful, I wonder,” the priest piped up, “if you could dare to tell my friend George, here, even a small bit more? For instance, are you just hopeful, or are you – might you be able to say you’re _quite_ hopeful, or _very_ hopeful? Hm? TIny distinctions but I'm sure you well know, Dr. Warren, that everything turns on them, _biology, methodology, theology…_ ”

Sean Flynn was an unknown entity to the doctor, who had come for this surgery after a specific request by his most well-known patient. But he found he rather liked the little Catholic chap, who seemed a puckish sort.

“I think, Reverend--”

“Flynn,” the priest extended his hand. “Call me Sean.”

“Ah, well, I think, Reverend Flynn,” he smiled as he shook his hand, “I think we can tell your friend George that I am indeed _quite_ hopeful. In fact, given the fact that our patient has managed this long under such grueling circumstances, I may well say that I am _very_ hopeful.”

“Ah, that’s grand, then. Hear that Georgie,” he nudged Geo. “Does that help a bit?”

George found himself releasing a breath held too-long, and he couldn’t prevent himself from smiling at Sean. “It does. A bit.” He turned to the doctor. “It does, thank you. When can I seem him?”

“Oh, he’s going to be down for a while, yet,” came the answer. “He needs to be monitored in recovery for a few hours, and I’m going to keep him sedated enough to prevent his moving much. Sorry to be graphic, but there are drainage tubes and such that mustn’t be disturbed. But if all is well, then by this afternoon, I think, you may see him. Probably sleeping but at least back in his room.”

George closed his eyes, nodding and feeling more grateful than he could say. “Alright. Alright, then, thank you. Thank you.” He grasped the surgeon’s hand. “Thank you for seeing after my friend.”

“Thank me in twenty-four hours,” the doctor said with surprising humility before settling a hand on Flynn’s shoulder. “If you want to get into recovery to do your Rites, or something, I’ll take you there. I want to look in on him, myself.”

“I would, thank you.” He gave George a pointed look. “You alright, boyo?”

“I am,” George nodded, realizing he felt lighter in that moment than he had the past two days. “I’ve got some calls to make. Thanks for your company, Father.”

“Thanks for the ciggies, lad. Fair trade!” He stepped off with the doctor, but turned around to him before they made it to the door. “Georgie!”

Geo looked up, eyebrows raised.

“You’re a good one in battle, son. Just like England’s Patron. Beware of darkness.”

“I will,” he raised his hand, not quite sure what he was going to do with it, and decided to click his heels and salute. “And you’re Irish, and demented. But you’re a good singer!”

The priest threw back his head and laughed, and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hope is the thing with feathers" is a poem by Emily Dickinson, which may be read [here](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42889/hope-is-the-thing-with-feathers-314).
> 
> “I have found him whom my soul loves…and will not let him go…” is from the Song of Songs (or the Song of Solomon) 3:4


	21. Cold words, warm hearts, hot blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George and Jane have a moment. Yes, she was the one who'd slapped John the day before. And she's not too happy with Harrison at the moment. Paul is out of recovery and back in his privileged room, but everything seems very tenuous and dicey to the group.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long wait for this rather short chapter. It was meant to be longer, but people were getting unhappy waiting, so here's what is finished. Next chapter should be up faster, since it's part of this one. I want to thank you all for continuing to stick with this story, and for all the comments that I really appreciate and that keep me going. By the end of the next chapter, you're going to see Paul out of the hospital and setting up his own apartment -- a very anxious time for him -- and you'll have seen where the investigation is going with Dawson. So, please stick with me!

The radio was kept low at the nurses station, but the words still seemed to cut through sharply:

“Beatles manager, Brian Epstein has released a brief statement which reads as follows:

_'In the early hours of this morning, Paul McCartney underwent surgery to address a minor complication connected to his recent accident. He is doing well in recovery and the medical staff in attendance, all top-notch people, assure us that he is expected to continue to improve. All of the Beatles have asked me to express their gratitude for the thousands of well-wishes and prayers that have been sent to Paul and the whole band at this time. We will continue to update our fans as the process of Paul’s healing moves forward.’”_

The announcement was followed by a sigh, as though the man reading them found the words unsatisfactory. They were, of course, because the statement deliberately said as little as possible. Short, chilly words for a chilly mid-November.

They’d all been in the waiting room by the time Paul – six hours after emerging from surgery -- was finally returned from recovery. He was, as the doctor had promised, in a deep and medically-induced slumber meant to promote his recovery and keep him as still as possible.

So, in truth, there really wasn’t anything for anyone to do. And not much for anyone to see beyond drainage tubing and bags peaking out from beneath his blankets, and Paul’s handsome face pulled back in deep repose.

Still, everyone was there. And with the exception of Ringo, none of them wanted to talk to George Harrison, who was paying mightily for indulging in his desire to keep Paul, in such a vulnerable state, all to himself.

“Worth it,” he thought, even as he rubbed the ache in his chin where John had gotten him with a pretty good right hook before Dawson pulled him off and threw him into a chair.

 _Worth it_ even though, in retrospect, he understood why everyone was angry with him. Probably he should have called John, after all, when Macca had been sped into surgery. And Jim, yes. Should have called his dad, of course. And Ritchie. And Brian. And Jane.

Well, it was done, now, and George knew in his gut that however angry and misused the others might have felt about having been kept in the dark during such a fraught couple of hours, they would forgive him and forget all about it, as Paul got better.

He was rather counting on that.

As time ticked by, though, and the group seemed to consume all the tea in England -- and even the stable, balanced Cynthia began to smoke like a renegade hipster, lighting one ciggie after another -- George found himself waiting anxiously for a thumbs up from the sisters after taking Paul’s vitals. A sign that his recovery was imminent. That his fever was lowering.

So far, hour after hour, the nurses had shown a sideways thumb, signifying _no change_. And every time they did, Lennon would look at Harrison with lips pressed into thin lines, a murderous look in his eyes.

But at least things were stable, George would think in self-defense. At least the thumbs were sideways, not down. That was good, right?

Yeah, he should have called John. Especially knowing what he’d figured out, so recently. _A spouse has a right to know, I guess_ , George thought to himself. And if John had been behaving like anything these past days, _spousal_ would cover it.

Jane was behaving similarly, though. She’d been shooting George glaring looks since arriving as she paced and smoked and limited most of her remarks to Cynthia, whom she seemed to like, and Jim McCartney, whom she actually seemed to love.

And now, after another frustrating “side thumb” from the sisters, she had sidled up to him as he stood in a corner, away from the group, and said “You should have called me. And John. You should have called us.”

George had only raised an eyebrow at her. “The both of you, then?”

“Well, yes,” she said, still whispering, although George would have called it a hiss. “I’m his girlfriend, and I love him, and I should have been here. And John’s his partner and his best friend, and maybe even the biggest part of Paul’s world – I’m not too stupid to recognize that. They’ve been together for a long time. You should have called.”

George had only looked at her from beneath heavy lids, wondering what the diminutive redhead meant by all that. His limited experience with Jane had given him the impression that she was complicated, guarded, not one to easily show herself.

A lot like Paul, he suddenly realized. Perhaps that’s why they so frequently seemed to get on each other’s nerves; were they too much alike? He shrugged. That was something to think about another time.

“No, don’t shrug like that.” Jane continued, slapping him smartly on the shoulder. “He was hemorrhaging. And the abscess was breached. That was _serious,_ George. We deserved to know.”

George bowed his head a little in a short sign of admission. “I just wanted to be with him,” he said. “I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

“Clearly not,” she agreed. Then her look, and her tone, softened. “But if you made a bad decision, I guess you did it because of love, too.” She looked around the room and began to tug on her jacket. “I could use some air,” she said. “Have heard the roof is open. Want to try it?”

He shrugged again. “Might as well, since you’re the only one talking to me.”

“Jim’s not mad at you,” she said.

“No, he’s worse. He’s _disappointed_ in me. And, as Paul’s often said, Jim McCartney disappointed in a lad is worse than ten of him angry. And he’s known me since I was wee, so he’s really, really disappointed.”

She grabbed her bag and his hand. “C’mon, then.”

The roof was windy and cold, and both of them tucked more deeply into their jackets after finally getting their ciggies lit.

“Surprised yer famous parents aren’t here,” George said, meaning for it to land like the intentional needle it was.

“Told them there’s no point in being here just now,” she said, looking at her feet. “Haven’t actually gone into the full story of it, to tell the truth.”

“Oh, no? Why not?”

Jane looked up at him sharply. “Do you think I should?”

“Well.. I guess I’m wonderin’ if you’re not telling them because you’re ashamed of him, or because you just want to protect his privacy.”

“Of course I’m not ashamed of him, how dare you,” Jane lifted her chin. “He did nothing wrong.”

“Aye, you’ve got that right,” George found himself pleased to hear her say it.

“Look,” he breathed, taking a huge drag on his smoke and letting it leave his body slowly. “If it were up to me, lass, no one would ever know anything about this unless they absolutely needed to. Don’t see how your parents _need_ to know the poor lad was nearly buggered to death.” He watched her porcelain skin flush scarlet at the words. “Definitely not your parents. S’none of their business, is it?”

“Do you really think that?” She asked, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. “You don’t think I’m… I don’t know, _obliged_ to tell them?”

George’s brows furrowed down. “Why would you be?”

“Well… he might be their son-in-law someday.”

“And why would that entitle them to know any of this?”

It suddenly occurred to him that, for all of her regal bearing and her mature façade, Jane Asher was still very young -- just nineteen years old -- and really rather sheltered in how she’d been raised. Paul was still her first, and only, relationship.

She was shrugging at George now, standing before him shivering and small and looking so lost that he could not be hard with her. He put his hands on her shoulders and lowered his head, speaking closely.

“Jane, whatever happens between you and Paul, this part of his story is only for the two of you to ever discuss. There is no one else on earth who needs to know about it. Private is private, and I can’t think of anything more private than this… fucking evil situation. Or how badly he is going to need to hear that you still love him.”

He heard her give a profoundly unladylike snort as she began to cry and pressed her forehead to his chest. “Oh, George…” she choked. “Thank you for saying it. I’ve been feeling so… alone and so guilty keeping others out of it.”

“Well, fuck the guilt, girl. If you love Paul--”

“Of course I do!” She insisted, sounding defensive.

“If you love Paul,” he repeated more gently, “then it will be your job to help him get better, and to protect him from busybodies who have no need to know anything more about him than that he is a great musician and that you love him.”

“I do,” Jane sniffled, reaching into a pocket for a handkerchief. “I do love him. I mean, I don’t _know_ if we’ll ever marry. Sometimes I think, ‘yeah’ but other times… And I know it’s the same for him. Sometimes we fit like a glove and sometimes we just annoy each other so badly... But I do, you know. Love him.”

“Well… _good_. The only ones sayin’ you should hurry up and get married are the press, you know. And fuck them fellas.”

Jane seemed to giggle wetly against his jacket. “Yeah. Fuck them.”

“I gotta tell ya, Little Red – that’s what Paul calls you, yeah?”

She nodded, her flaming hair billowing all about in the wind.

“Well, _Little Red_. You have a fine mouth on you. Does us all proud. I always thought you were such a dainty little thing, but Macca’s said you had a mouth like a sailor – worse than his own. Kind of surprised to hear you belting out yesterday. Did you really slap Lennon?”

Jane found herself laughing as she nodded into his chest. “Yes. Twice.”

“Ah, thought the second might have been Cyn. Should have known.”

“I shouldn’t have hit him,” she said with regret. “None of this is his fault, either.”

“Nay it isn’t, although all of us have blamed him, in turn. Probably you should tell him, you know, that you don’t.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Jane straightened up, no longer weeping but looking anxious.

“Well, my balls are freezing off, so let’s go back, yeah,” George said. “Think you can do your actress thing and put that look away? We need to see some smiles down there, and if Paul wakes up, he’ll need it from you for sure.”

“ _When_ he wakes up,” Jane corrected sternly.

“Sure, that’s what I meant. Only I don’t know if that will be today.”

“No…”

He thought she was going to collapse again as one arm came across her chest and the other held her bowed head, hand covering her face. She stood there for a long moment, looking for all the world like a very slight teenaged girl in real distress. When she at last raised her head, George watched, fascinated, as her face arranged itself into a convincing mask of serenity. Her eyes closed and it was as though Jane was mentally willing her jaw muscles to relax, her brow to open, her lips to pull up into a benign, ambiguous expression of complacency.

“Wow. You’re well-trained,” he marveled at her.

Her smile became a bit warmer, more genuine.

“I don’t get it,” he mused as they began their way down the steps. “How come you couldn’t help Paulie do better in our films? The lad can’t act his way out of a paper bag.”

“I tried,” she sounded tired, as though she’d been asked the question too many times. “We worked on all of his scenes, but he wouldn’t relax. He would want to be perfect, but he didn’t know what perfect would look like, so he would try too hard, and then you could see his discomfort.”

“Aye, that’s Paulie. Always the perfectionist.”

“Well, it seems like it comes to him more easily with music. Then again, I can act but I’d never be a tenth of the musician he is. He’s just so… he’s so _earnest_ when he tries to act. I don’t really understand it. He can scream like that on stage, but he can’t let loose with words on a printed page. It’s like… he won’t _show_ himself. But good acting means being willing to do that.”

George found that Jane Asher, when talking about her craft, was much more likable than he’d ever expected. While they stepped lightly down several floors, he could see her relax as she became expansive about something she understood and excelled at – the thing that held her passion as much as music held Paul’s.

 _Yeah,_ he thought. They really are very much alike.

“Paul shows himself in the screams,” George said. “He shows himself in the music and the melodies, and in those freakin’ brilliant bass riffs…that’s where he lets loose.”

“And when he screams, as you say,” Jane agreed, a thoughtful look crossing her brow. “I remember listening to him screaming in the background on _Boys_ and thinking how alive and immediate and energetic he was. Like little rockets constantly going off in the background. Turned the whole song into a party.”

“It did,” George laughed. “It’s a good turn by Ringo, and we’re as tight as a band can be on that number, but Paul just lets it rip, doesn’t he? Screams his bleedin’ head off, in perfect pitch.”

“It’s all pretty thrilling in concert,” she agreed, “and yet he’s so quiet at home.”

George nodded and sighed and held the door to the waiting room open for Jane. “Thanks for inviting me up with ye,” he whispered to her. “T’was nice to talk.”

Jane, her nose cherry red from the cold but otherwise looking composed, nodded back with a smile. “Coming in?”

“In a minute. Need to think.”

He stood alone in the hallway, watching medical personnel, all crisp and white, moving past him, some of them meeting his eyes and betraying themselves as fans. Others seeming to make a point of not looking in his direction. From where he stood, he could still look through the small window to Paul’s room, and he watched, his eyes round and sad, as two sisters in attendance busied themselves with charts, and a new unit of blood being fed into his oldest mate. This time, hopefully, blood that would stay in his body and his strength would finally build.

 _John said Macca was talkin’ crazy about leaving the band,_ he thought, _that he didn’t know if he could ever feel right on stage again._

_But how… how can Paul McCartney ever survive if he leaves the stage – the only place he can scream and scream and scream, as much as he wants to, as much as he needs too -- without having to explain why?_

_Especially now._

_Christ, what a hellacious mess this all is…_

He slipped into the waiting room just in time to see one of the sisters turn to band and his father – toward everyone who loved him. Her face was tense and serious.

Her thumb was down.

Paul’s fever was up.


	22. "He Won't Believe Anyone But You..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Lennon and Jim McCartney are working together to give a shave to the sleeping, still feverish Paul. They talk. About Paul and John. And John spends some time remembering who "that thing between Lennon and McCartney" got started, anyway. This is a pretty emotional chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever I am sorry that this chapter took so long, and that it doesn't bring us yet into where Dawson's investigation is going, but this one became so emotionally charged that I couldn't just jump out of it and into police work. I hope you like this. Next chapter will open with Dawson, and then bring us forward. And it will come faster, I promise!

“We did say this was a possibility,” the doctor had reminded them all. “We had no choice but to operate but, conditions were not optimal. Still, I think if we can control the fever and give him a chance to fight it…”

The words were flying over Jim McCartney’s head and he stepped away from the group and toward Paul. He didn’t want to listen to any more reassurances. He just wanted his son back, with his eyes opened and his body at a reasonable temperature. Surely, it wasn’t too much to ask. He was a good lad, after all.

It couldn’t be too much to ask, could it?

He lowered himself into the chair nearest Paul’s bed and took his son’s hand into his own.

“Paulie, my lad,” he whispered. “You must stop this nonsense, and get well, do you hear, now? Your old Da can’t deal with you being so unwell. Not again. And if your mum were here, she’d say the same, wouldn’t she?”

His mind wandered back, helplessly, to the terrible day when he and Mary had had to leave their oldest son alone in hospital. Ten years old – was he ten, then, or only eight? Maybe eight, for Paul had been very little, then. Mary would know. She never forgot such things.

Jim couldn’t remember the year, but he would never forget the sight of Paul, flushed with a rheumatic fever, his face burning scarlet, his wee chest rising and falling with such obvious effort. His body so listless but those big eyes so alert – black with fear as his parents were escorted through the door and away from him. His weak, piping voice calling after them. “Mum! Da! _Don’t go_ ,” before falling into a terrifying cough. Jim had had to forcibly stop Mary from running back to her son. “Steady on, Mare,” he had said. “We’ll not let him see us without resolve, or make a Mother’s boy out of him…”

The wrong thing to say, that. Mary hadn’t spoken to him for the rest of the night.

They would take turns visiting the lad, Jim seeing him on his lunch hour, Mary going in the evening, when Jim could watch over Michael. He recalled, now, how grateful he had been for the chance to visit Paul on his own, able to walk away, slump-shouldered and anxious, without Mary having to see it.

Because their boy had truly been so very ill.

Not, too ill however, to somehow charm the sisters who had attended him. These sister-nurses had been actual Sisters, for it was a Catholic hospital Paul had been admitted to, and while Jim found most of the nursing nuns to be either terrifying and stern in the extreme or just spookily quiet and serious – and he’d never had much use for Catholics before Mary, anyway – the women who were seeing to his son seemed to have a particular sweetness about them. Or, Jim thought now, perhaps Paul simply brought it out in them. He’d always had a way of making people love him who’d never planned on it.

He recalled one nun, a rather plain-faced young thing whose name, Sister Serenus, seemed particularly well-suited to her. The woman would skulk around wearing that dreadful medieval habit, rosary beads rattling at her side, but wearing an expression of such peacefulness on her face that Jim had assumed her, at first, to be a religiously-obsessed moron with a completely empty head.

Being married to a nurse, he should have known better, of course; Mary and her nursing friends had all been impressive women made of equal parts cleverness and compassion, and Sister Serenus had those same qualities, plus a quietly subversive sense of humor to boot. He had watched her one afternoon, efficiently changing Paul’s sheets without disturbing the boy. “We’re a little behind schedule, today,” she told Jim, “otherwise, I’d not be intruding on your visit. The monsignor came by this morning, and God bless them, sometimes these men really don’t understand that we don’t especially need their effusive words of praise for how much we manage to get done while shorthanded. The blessings he gave us were all very nice, but if he’d rolled up his sleeves and pitched in a bit, now that would have better shown us how holy he is, wouldn’t it?”

Jim couldn’t help but smile at her boldness. He was pretty sure Catholics weren’t supposed to openly criticize their priests, especially not in front of a Protestant, but the young nun simply smiled at him, and then down at his son, who was deeply sleeping, his face bright red from his incessant fever. He watched her sooth back Paul’s hair and then brush his cheek with the back of her hand. “Lovely boy,” she said to him.

“He can be a strong-headed child, sometimes,” He had replied. For some reason, he felt like he needed this odd woman to understand that nursing his son didn’t mean possessing him.

“Ah, he’s a good little chap, though,” she’d answered in that light, tranquil voice, “he just wants things done properly, you know. And he’s a bossy little thing about it, too. He was fussing this morning, saying “it hurts, it hurts” and so I put a cold compress on his forehead, and didn’t he whip it off and fling it across the room, saying “I didn’t say my _head!_ ” He sounded exactly like a little prince. So, then I bathed his wrists and he gave out the loveliest little ‘ _ahh_ ’, and then said ‘thank you, Missus’, so polite.”

“I don’t think he knows that nuns are never a ‘missus’,” Jim had teased.

“Depends on how you think of it, you know,” she had twinkled back at him, completely unfazed. “We _are_ called ‘Brides of Christ’, after all.”

“Brides who never have children of their own, though.”

“Brides who have all of the children given into their charge.” She had countered. “Our spiritual motherhood makes all of these children our own, in a way.”

Jim had reached over then, taking Paul’s hand. “This one is _mine_ , though,” he said with a touch of asperity.

Sister Serenus showed no shadow, yet seemed like she completely had Jim’s number. “And your lovely wife’s too, yes? Please know we pray for all of our children, every day, Mr. McCartney.” She had squeezed Jim’s shoulder as she passed. Another thing that had surprised him.

Two days later, Paul was in much the same condition. “But when will the fever _break_ ,” Jim had impatiently asked the nun. The boy had been in hospital for five days, and seemed no better than he would have been had he been kept at home.

“Oh, I think he’s going to come round,” Sister Serenus said, her placid expression unchanged. “He’s been moving about quite a lot and this morning he demanded tea.”

“Tea? I shouldn’t think it good for him.”

“Oh there’s no harm in it,” the nun smiled as she bathed Paul’s forehead. "And _this_ little boy, polite as he may be, doesn’t just passively settle in, does he? I was trying to get some barley water down him this morning and he wasn’t having it. Kept making a face and turning his head. And then Sister Beatrice came in to relieve me and said there was tea ready, and our boy piped up, ‘I should _like_ some tea!’”

“He said that? Like that?” Jim’s eyebrows went up.

“Indeed. Just like a lord, he sounded. I brought him back a cup with lots of sugar and milk, and he drank it right down, to the last drop. Even opened his pretty eyes for me while he drank. He’s been very settled since then. Seems more comfortable. I think it did him good.” She looked up, mischief in her eyes. “Not so much the tea, perhaps, but the bossing around and being obeyed. Don’t ever let him become a priest, sir. He’d be a terror.”

Jim had laughed out loud at that, “No worries, there, Sister. No boy of mine ever would.”

“Aye, my father said the same,” she gurgled at him. “And didn’t two of my brothers go off and become monks? Can I get you a cup of tea, then? I think the cart’s around.”

Sister Serenus was a maddening woman -- consistently contrary, but never a foe.

And yet it seemed that, like these excellent women now tending to his adult son, she had rarely left the sides of Paul or the other two infected boys sharing that hospital room. One night, Mary arrived home red-eyed, telling Jim that she’d lain in their son’s bed, singing to him and [telling him that he must get better](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611301) or her own heart would break. “Nothing. No response. Then this sister comes in -- she was truly like an angel in those robes, and in her bearing – and she’d brought warm milk for Paul, and it was amazing, Jim. I’d been there two hours pleading with him to open his eyes, and this little nun with the merest whisper of a voice, gets him stirring. And she lifted his head and urged him to drink it, and he did! And you should have heard him, so fresh, he was when he spoke to her. He said, ‘It’s the wrong time of day for milk.’ Bold as anything.”

“He spoke?” Jim’s brows went up.

“He did, and she told him in no uncertain terms that he would drink the milk because his mum was there special just to help him take it and he’d be very rude and hurt my feelings if he didn't have it down. And he opened his eyes, Jim, and looked at me. And he drank almost all of the milk before falling back to sleep! It’s the first time I’ve left there feeling the least bit hopeful!”

“This is good news, love,” Jim said, kissing her cheek.

“Aye, and I apologized for the way he’d sassed her, and she just laughed and said he was her favorite of all the children. Or actually she said ‘ _her_ ’ children. ‘He is my favorite little son,’ she said, just like that.”

“Ah, this wouldn’t be Sister Serenus, by any chance, would it,” Jim asked, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Serenus, _yes_!”

“We need to watch out for that one,” Jim counselled. “She seems to think Paul belongs to her, not to us.”

“Well, he’s certainly obeying her like he’s hers, anyway. I asked her to start _ordering_ him to get well.”

The next day, Paul’s fever had begun to level off, and then to drop, until the crisis finally passed. And during the five days of isolation the doctors had ordered before determining the boy would not relapse, Paul and Serenus had become quite close. When she could, the sister would play cards with Paul and she began to teach him chess, too. On the happy day Jim and Mary had come to bring him home, Paul had briefly let go of their hands to run toward Sister Serenus and give her a big hug, throwing himself into her robes and enjoying a hug just as big in return, and numerous kisses on the head.

“Be well, my boy,” Serenus had said, loud enough to be heard by Jim and Mary, “and God be with you, your whole life long.”

Her impact lasted for a little while. For a few weeks after his hospital stay, Paul had even insisted on going to Sunday Mass, before his better health, and his youthful distractions, made him forget why he had ever felt the need.

Jim held on to the memory of Paul’s last great illness with amused affection, and then wondered if somewhere inside, Paul might remember it as well. He began to speak to his son, quietly, of those days, so many years ago, when he had once again been in the grip of fever, and his mother and another clever, compassionate woman helped pull him through it. “Do you remember, son, that little nun, Sister Serenus, and how she helped you come back to us? I wonder, would you drink a bit of warm milk for her, today, if she were here? Or demand a cup of tea, like a ‘little prince.’ Could she command you instantly better in a way none of us have managed?”

He’d raised one hand to his son’s face, running the back of his fingers along several day’s heavy growth, for Paul was a lad who had to shave twice a day if he was going out of an evening, and he was threatening a full-on beard, now.

And oh, how he hated to shave, did Paul. He groused about it daily, putting it off as long as possible and then making a ridiculous production of all of it, the foaming, the shaving, the inevitable wee scrapes and cuts which always seemed to bleed more than they should, “It’s like I’m a freaking hemophiliac,” he’d bellow as he left the bathroom, his face speckled with toilet paper.

Jim turned to the sister who was making a note in Paul’s chart.

“Do you happen to have a razor,” he asked, “and some lather?”

It took some convincing but eventually the nurses decided Jim McCartney could be trusted to shave his son without slitting the lad’s throat, as long as someone was there to assist. The older of the women was just settling in on the opposite side from Jim when John Lennon suddenly appeared at her side. “May I do it, Mother?”

He’d asked it in a low, almost trembling voice, turning then to look at Jim. “Can—can I help hold his head for you?”

The older man, after a moment’s pause, nodded toward the nurse. “It’s alright with me, if you don’t mind, sister,” he said softly.

It was alright with her. John slipped into her place. “Roll the pillow,” the woman ordered as she left. “It will keep his chin higher and give you better access to his neck. Also, you’ll have less lather on the bedclothes.”

John immediately took to rolling the pillow, shooting a look at Paul’s father. “Mustn’t soil the blankets.” He smiled. “I’m not going to mess with her, that’s for sure.”

Jim just grunted a bit as he began to stir a boar-bristled brush into a cup, carefully transferring the foam on to his son’s face and neck, and dabbing the stuff deeply into his whiskers.

“Always fascinates me how he can have a face like an angel,” John murmured, “but a beard like a werewolf. Shall I do this side,” he offered, both surprised and glad when Jim handed off the cup to him.

“Never met anyone who hates shaving more,” John continued to muse, his chatter covering up a profound case of nerves. “Although he also hates the shadow on him, so he’s forever standin’ at the mirror with a grimace, latherin’ up and cursin' because the beard’s too heavy for an electric razor, and then bleedin’ all over himself. He’s a graceful lad except when he shaves; then he’s a bumbler,” he continued to babble. “Even with a safety razor -- not a straight one, like this -- when he leaves the bathroom it looks like there’s been a murder committed.”

Jim had been examining the edge of the straight razor in his hand, and now he finally looked up at John, still saying nothing as the younger man lathed his mate to his satisfaction and put aside the cup. “Hold his head steady, will you,” he asked.

John leaned over Paul, taking each side of his forehead. “Like this?”

“That’ll do,” Jim agreed. He lined up the razor and began a slow descent down Paul’s cheek, ear to chin, wiping the blade on a towel.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, Jim doing a careful and masterful job, working on very small sections of his son’s famous face, and John simply putting his hands to Paul’s head and then holding there, as he was told. After a bit, John managed to work up his courage and to speak what was on his mind – the reason he’d volunteered to help do this with Jim.

“I’ve been wonderin’…” he began, his voice trailing off a bit until he cleared his throat. “I suppose you are furious with me for letting this happen to him.”

Jim pulled away, once again depositing a blade full of black hair and foam to the towel. His mouth was a grim, thin line. “I am furious that this has happened to him. I am livid that anyone would dare hurt my boy like this. Are you saying you ‘let it’ happen, then? Are you taking responsibility for it?”

“Yes,” John’s voice break. “It’s my fault and I’ll take it.”

Jim kept his eyes wholly on his own lad. “To say you ‘let it’ happen implies that you had a hand in this. Is that what you’re saying to me?”

“Of course not,” John blustered. “How could you even say that? I would never --.”

“Then you’d better explain your meaning, John. How is this wreckage your doing?”

“I left him alone,” John gulped, a small helpless sound escaping from him on the last word. “If I’d have just stayed with him while he finished his drink this wouldn’t have happened. But I was too spoilt, only thinkin’ of myself. And now…”

“You do know that Paul is 23 years old, don’t you?” Jim asked, watching his own hands and unconsciously pulling his own lips down, as though he were shaving his own face, as he pressed the blade below Macca’s nose.

“What?”

The older man paused his actions and looked up at John. “He’s a mature man, John. There’s nothing wrong with assuming that a 23 year-old man can finish a drink on his own, unbothered. Un—unmolested.”

“Paul’s not just any 23 year-old man, though--” John began.

“No, he’s not,” Jim agreed, looking back at his hands, pulling another shaving face as he moved the blade all around Paul’s lips and over his chin. “That little cleft,” he murmured. “Always hard to get just right…no, he’s not like any other 23 year-old, just as he wasn’t like any other 12 year-old or 16 year-old. He’s always been a different creature -- alert, always aware of what is going on around him.”

“That’s true,” John gulped.

“Mary used to say it was the scouting and the nature-watching that did it, made him like a deer always looking about, ready to leap where he needed to. But I think he came out of her like that. Smart, instinctive lad.”

“But oblivious, _sometimes_ ,” John dared to argue. “Sometimes he’s so busy bein’ helpful…” He winced, watching a bit of blood emerge from where Jim had gone too hard on the chin.

“We’ve been watchin’ out for each other for a long time,” he finally continued. “He keeps me from wandering off when I’ve not got my glasses, makes sure I’m looking the right way, or getting on the right plane, or not stepping in front of a speeding car. And I…I try to keep people from getting’ at him.” He dabbed at the cut with a flannel, pressing down a little. “Because everybody wants him. Everybody wants every bit of him, all the time.” He looked up again at Jim, who had paused to permit John’s intrusion. “I left him there, and I knew better than to do that.”

“Oh, so you knew Paul was going to be drugged and... taken off?”

“Of course not,” John repeated, almost growling. “But I know how it is with Paul when he’s in a glad-handing mode. He’ll talk to anyone, let anyone get too close. He keeps me pointed in the right direction but my job has always been to pull him back, away from the strangers. And I…dropped the ball. I left him at the mercy of strangers. And strangers are no good for Paul. They want to take from him, take pieces of him, of his beauty. They want his looks and his light. For some reason, they want to destroy it, like they can’t just let it be…his brightness… that light that comes right out of his eyes. They want his light, so they can possess it themselves, I think. Because they’ve none of their own.”

Jim raised his eyebrows, letting John’s words hang there between them for a few minutes. Then, “You were with a rather distinguished group of men that night. I should think if there was one place you could have let down your guard, that might be it.”

“Why are you arguing with me,” John hissed at him. “Why aren’t you telling me to get off. Why haven’t you thrown a punch at me or, or… Jim, _this is my fault_. Your son is lying here, helpless, his face so hot he’s melting the shaving foam and it’s my fault. Why…why aren’t you hating me like usual?”

“I don’t _hate_ you, John,” Jim said, resuming his blade work. “Tilt his head back a bit, will you, then?”

John did as he was asked, and silence reigned between them once more. Jim turned Paul’s face to himself, and began shaving near his other ear. “I do not hate you,” he repeated, “although I admit I didn’t like you much to start. I thought you a bad influence on Paul, and you still annoy me sometimes.”

“I know that,” John admitted in a gruff voice.

“I’ve never made a secret of it,” Jim agreed. “But… do you remember that time in… well, whatever year it was when your poor mother died, and you two had drifted apart for a bit?”

John remembered it all too well. Remembered how he had mostly abandoned Macca (and not for the last time) in the confusion of his grief -- even riding over to Forthlin Road one day to throw him out of what was left of the band for being a usurper, or so John had thought. Until he’d found Paul, bruised and beaten, his broken ribs being tended to by his rather terrifying Auntie Jin.

 _“Didn’t you hear,”_ Mike had told him, [_“Paul got jumped in town yesterday.”_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/46816387)

And John had raced his way up to Macca’s room, his fury forgotten, and had stood there, helpless to do anything, while Jin anointed his wounds and Paul kept turning his head away from his aunt, and his best mate, in shame.

It was only later that Paul admitted the attack had been less about robbery and more about his pretty face – about the assumptions other men made about his looks. John had been concerned about a particular bruise showing on Paul’s neck and it had created an uncomfortable moment between them.

> “Wait,” Paul turned his head to him. “What did you think, that they were trying to actually _kill_ me?”
> 
> “I just…oh, Paul, I just thought maybe you weren’t tellin’ it to me straight. Like maybe they jumped you to try to…I don’t know.”
> 
> “What, John? Try to _what_?”
> 
> “Well, you know…it’s just…it’s that face of yours, Macca. I was kinda getting worried that someone had tried to…well, I was wrong so forget it.”
> 
> “John.”
> 
> “Sorry, it was a stupid question.”
> 
> “John.” Paul grew quiet. “Are you saying you thought they wanted to… _have_ me? Like, _rape_ me?”

_Yes, baby, that’s exactly what I was saying_ , John thought now. _It’s what I’d worried about for all these years. Your beauty, your light, and how some men would want to have you for it, destroy you for it, for their own sick reasons. And now…it’s happened. All my worst fears come true. Forever._

“I remember,” he whispered to Jim. “I can never forget it.”

Jim noted John’s fingers shaking as they held his son so gently, by his temples. He wiped the blade and continued his work. “Paul really needed you, then. More than he needed me, or Mike or anyone else. Only you. And you were there for him.”

“No less than he’d been there for me, when Julia was killed,” John said, rubbing his nose on his sleeve, his hands still in place.

“Yes, [Mimi has told me about that.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/45597766) The wake and funeral and all. Everything Paul had done.”

“I’d been a right bastard to him at the funeral.”

Jim simply nodded quietly as, John had noticed, nearly everyone did whenever he so accused himself.

“But he forgave me,” he finished. “He always forgives me.”

“As I have noticed.” The father looked up at John, raising the razor. “Would you like to finish up, son?”

 _Son_. Jim had never called him that before but John didn’t notice the word, too horrified by the thought of nicking Paul.

“Christ, no!” He shook his head at Jim. “I’ve no idea how to use one of those old-fashioned things, and we want him to get better and live, don’t we?”

Jim’s face curved into a slight, toothless grin. “We do, at that. Well-reasoned, John. Raise his chin again, please.”

While Jim turned his attention back to his son, John permitted his memory to skip back to 1958. Julia had died, and Paul had been all for him, non-stop, trying to hold John together (“you’re worth the fussing-over” he’d insisted) when all John wanted, and needed, was to fall apart. He’d ignored the band, ignored Paul and George for weeks and weeks after her burial, until Paul finally needed him.

Paul. The too-mature, fussing, parental Paul McCartney, needing John Lennon, as no one ever had, before.

And that had been when it all started to change, when ‘that thing’ between them began to show itself. The first kisses, shared when Paul was so badly injured, he could barely be touched, which somehow kept it all ‘safe’. Soft, chaste kisses on the lips, and [John serving them down Paul's belly before he had paused.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/46817458) The powerful temptation to do more, to cup his black-haired beauty in his palm, to press his lips _there_ , just _there_ , over where the fabric grown taut.

Then, more [kisses in a graveyard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/46944346) \-- exploratory and mixed with tears and shared grief. But Paul was still injured and even if he hadn’t been, he was so young, and John… _couldn’t_. Couldn’t bring himself to give into his own urges – and Paul’s if his beautiful lips were telling the truth -- with a boy who’d only just turned sixteen.

John had only been eighteen, himself, but the years seemed hugely different to him, even if Paul had actually been the more mature of the two of them. The lad was still a high school boy and John had begun to college and it just… didn’t seem right to him.

And so, he had broken Paul’s heart, really broken it, for the first – sadly, not the last -- time. He’d moved on to college, to the art school that actually connected to Paul’s Inny, and had become friends with two upperclassmen who made the gap in age between him and Paul seem even more profound.

 _Paul seemed so young and naïve_ , and there was Cyn, perhaps the nicest girl John had ever met, and she loved him and there was so much sex going on between them...

 _Paul seemed so young and earnest_ , and there was Stu, with a face like James Dean and prodigious talent with the paint brushes – Stu, who walked around with a cool factor that was off the charts and who -- by permitting John to be his friend -- passed some of that overwise hipness on to him…

 _Paul seemed so young and adoring_ , and there was Stu, who was content to let John follow him in puppylike adulation, just as John had been happy to permit it in Paul…

 _Paul seemed so young, so obediently father-hung_ , and there were the crappy apartments at Gambier Terrace, where the unkempt, bohemian sort of life John and Stu and other students shared seemed so very sophisticated, by comparison...

So, John had left Paul alone, ignored him, mocked him in front of his new friends. Tried to mock him before his bandmates, too, although Macca – to his credit, and the band’s benefit -- took no bullshit from John when it came to music and their partnership. If Paul rarely pushed back about the rest, he never allowed John to forget that when it came to the band, they were equals or they were nothing.

Still, though, he’d abandoned Paul socially. Left him solitary at home, rarely calling. Kept the boy at a distance if they were all going out. He had Cyn. He had Stu. And Paul, well… _Paul was so young_ , the brilliant little brother he had to put up with and who could and would sometimes best John and set him on his ass.

But Paul had forgiven him. In that crazy, unconditional way he had, Paul had forgiven John for being the shit he so often was toward him.

And then there had been a night in July – in 1959, a year after Julia’s death -- when John had drunk himself into a days-long stupor over his loss, fighting with Mimi, fighting with Cyn and Stu, fighting with strangers on the bus, just fighting the with whole world, and with every second in which he had to continue living within it -- that he had shown up at Paul’s doorstep. He’d been ragged, hungry, lonely, scared – afraid he’d burnt every bridge he’d ever need to cross back upon to get to the people he loved. So, he’d gone to Paul.

Because Paul would always forgive him.

And Paul given him a baleful look as he opened the door to let him in. He had fed John and tossed him into the shower, and given him clean clothes to wear, and then invited him to stay, because Jim and Michael were at Blackpool for a few days with the scouts, weren’t they?

Then, Paul had shown him new songs he had written – polished songs, sad songs, songs of longing, all about missing someone, about writing love letters, about following his heart, about following the sun.

So brilliant, his Macca.

And Paul had just turned seventeen, which meant he wasn’t sixteen anymore. And John was still eighteen, which meant that – somehow, in the fuzzy way of maths – they were really only a year apart, at least for a few months, yet. And John wasn’t very old at all, and Paul wasn’t so very young, then, was he?

And so there it was. In the summer of ’59, when John’s grief and anger had pitched him into darkness, Paul had been there to catch him.

Paul had been lonely, too. Because he had lots of friends, did Macca, but only one soulmate. And suddenly John was there, and it felt as though the both of them had been only waiting for this moment to arrive.

That’s when it fully happened -- when it all became alive between them. It had been Paul, the younger of the two, who had set it into motion, putting down his guitar, reaching across to John -- who was so afraid, so scared, because he shouldn’t have even been there, shouldn’t have knocked on Paul’s door after having been such a bad friend, such a brutal, abandoning, selfish mate – and simply pulling him forward into a kiss.

As though nothing had happened since the previous summer. As though all the hurt was gone, forgiven, forgotten.

And then the kisses came and came, no longer tentative but heavy and deep, and wet, and they ranged beyond lips, moving toward necks, and shoulders and nipples and chests -- biting, sucking, tongues circling, kissing baby-soft tummies and then going down further. And the hands explored and reached and squeezed and caressed, and there was a different sort of music being made between them, harmonies made up of sighs and shared moans, and questions and urgings forward when things got scary, and suddenly they were lovers feasting upon ‘this thing’ between them, each having the other, each holding the other, opening themselves up to each other in utter fascination and freedom, marveling at it all in wonder. Dozing and rising and laughing with real joy, gazing and saying everything they were feeling for each other without words, no words needed, not even those three very important words, not them, not yet. Those would come later – much later -- during a stay in Paris that felt like being married, that felt like a honeymoon neither of them would ever get over.

_“If the world were different, I’d never have looked further than you, John Lennon. I’d never have needed to.”_

They were words of regret, and Paul had only said them to John just nights ago. When he was still talking. When he wasn’t as warm as a furnace, and so pale, looking even paler now as Jim McCartney tenderly wiped the last residue of lather from his son’s face.

“I think we’re done here,” the old man said to no one in particular, and the sisters, who never abandoned Paul’s room for long, began to collect blade, cup, toweling.

“Are we,” John asked him, the question loaded with meaning.

“Yes, I believe we are,” Jim answered, chin raised and eyes bright. “John, my son has nothing to be ashamed of, and yet I know him. I know that when we get past this – if, please God, we get past this crisis – he will feel shame, just as he did in Liverpool, when he needed you. And he will need someone to remind him of who he is, and all that he is yet meant to be.”

At that, Jim rose from his seat and made his unsteady, arthritic way to John, on the other side of the bed. He patted John on the shoulder and looked directly into his eyes. “John Lennon, you annoy the bejesus out of me sometimes. Often, even. But I’ve learned to bless the day you two found each other, because neither of you would ever have managed to fulfill your destinies alone.”

John’s bushy eyebrows went into a deep frown. _What was the old man saying?_ Jim gave a little sigh. “I’ve always suspected that Mary would have understood you in ways I never have or could, because she was like that about people, instinctive, like Paul. And I believe, now… have _come_ to believe, that is, that she would have seen what Paul has always seen in you, and loved you for it.”

Jim McCartney stepped closer, holding John now by both shoulders. “Please tell me, that you’ll be there for him when he needs you, John. Please… be there to tell him of the man he is, and all he still has before him. You’re the only one he’ll listen to on this, I know it. You’re the only one he will believe. Because he will _want_ to believe you. Just like always.”

John’s eyes welled up as his throat caught. He simply nodded at first until he could choke out the words. “I’ll always be there for him, Jim. Always. Every day for the rest of my life. I will tell him, everyday.”

“Thank you.” Jim’s held John’s gaze, his eyes taking on a pointed expression. “That’s all I wanted to hear from you… _son_.”

From within the waiting room, Cynthia and Jane and Ritchie and George could only marvel at it – at the sight of old Jim McCartney, no longer a strong man, upholding the quivering form of John Lennon. Of John Lennon, collapsed and weeping in his arms, shoulders heaving as he clung and bawled -- as he never had before -- in the arms of a father.


	23. "It's the best day of my life..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the house detective John Dawson begins an inquiry among hotel staff members, John is present for the moment he's been waiting for, and it feels like the best day of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really, really sorry for the delay with this chapter. All I can say is work has been really busy and there hasn't been much leftover energy for writing. But I am happy to finally get us to this place. Now, things will really begin to move. Thank you for sticking with this story!

The young valet was seated in a management office, his toes tapping nervously against the floor as he waited for the three men before him to end their whispered conversation and turn their attention to him.

He had no idea why he had been called in to this meeting. As far as he knew, he’d done nothing wrong, insulted no guest, scratched no car finish as he parked or retrieved a vehicle. He’d always been a careful sort.

But here he was, tap-tapping away with his feet, watching the great bear of a man whose car boot he’d helped to load with books and luggage and whatnot only a day or two ago. He hadn’t then known that the man, John Dawson, was the house detective when he’d helped him, but the lad couldn’t recall having done anything cheeky or out-of-turn while serving him. He wasn’t really the cheeky sort, after all.

At the moment, Dawson was peering at a file, conferring with two other men who were also examining it. His file? Well, there couldn’t be much in it, could there, he’d only been with the hotel a month or so! Although, really, the file didn’t look quite in the hotel’s style. And who were these other men, dressed in somber black, who had not said so much as “have a seat” to him, as the detective had shown him in?

He let out an impatient sigh, running his hand over his hair to smooth it down. _Well_ , he thought to himself. _At least it’s a break from being out in the rain._

With nods all around, the three men broke up their whispers and moved apart, the two dark-suited men standing behind Dawson’s desk, although the big man himself did not take a seat there. Instead, he settled into a chair next to the young man, and gave him a genial look as he poured a cup of tea from a waiting stand.

“I apologize, Edward, for keeping you waiting, and I promise I won’t detain you for very long. Cream and sugar?”

“Just sugar, thank you, sir,” Edward’s toes picked up their rhythm. “I’m not sure why I am here.”

“Well, we’ll end that mystery for you right now, shall we?” Dawson handed over a cup and poured one for himself. The other men, Edward noticed, did not partake. Dawson didn’t offer.

“Now, Edward – do you prefer to be called ‘Edward’ or ‘Ed’ or perhaps ‘Ned’?

“Edward, sir, if that’s alright.”

“Of course it is. A basic courtesy to call someone by their preferred name, what?”

Edward sipped his tea and nodded, feeling more anxious, rather than less. Dawson’s unexpected gentility – so surprising given his size and wizened look – had him reeling with suspicion that he might really be in some sort of a jam. He knew was being kid-gloved, and distrusted it.

“So, Edward, let me ask you. You seem a good young fellow. Good marks in school, no write-ups for bad public behavior. You live with your mum and dad and what, two brothers?”

The lad’s teacup rattled into its saucer. “That’s right.” All of that was in his personnel file? Could that be? He looked up at the silent men behind Dawson’s desk and suddenly became very nervous, indeed.

“Aye,” he finally answered. “And my granny…she’s just moved in with us.”

“Ah, that’s lovely, three generations together. Now, do you recall giving me some assistance the other day – a drizzly day like this one?”

“Aye, sir. Got your car for you and then helped you load it up.”

“So you did, lad, and you were very pleasant and helpful, which is something I would be happy to note in your file. You told me, then, that you were working to put some money together for college, to study what?”

“Ci-civil Engineering. Am I--” Edward couldn’t stand the suspense anymore and had to ask. “Am I in some sort of trouble, sir?”

Dawson gave him a shrewd look over his own teacup. “I don’t think so, son, but we’ll determine that very quickly if you could answer a few questions for me.” He put down his teacup and leaned forward toward the young man, a move he knew could be intimidating, and in this case, was. “Edward, the other day, I couldn’t help but notice that you were wearing a particularly fine set of shoes. Italian leather, with braiding on top. You’re not wearing them today.”

Edward’s eyes became as big as platters. “N-no, sir. Not wearing them now because the other day I realized they aren’t suited to the wet. The soles are too thin, sir. Delicate. I’m…I was trying to make them last.”

“Ah, well, that makes sense. You do still have the slippers, though?” At Edward’s faint, careful nod, Dawson leaned further forward. “Can you tell me, son, how you came by that particular pair of shoes? I only ask because they looked very expensive. Not something I’d expect to see a car valet wearing, especially if he is saving for college.”

“Oh, crap, I knew it,” Edward said, his hand shaking so violently that Dawson took his tea from him. “They were stolen, weren’t they? From a guest? I knew something wasn’t right. But they were so nice, I wanted to believe – I’ll give them back, sir, right away. I’ll go home today, right now and--”

“Shesh, hush, lad,” Dawson laid one of his mitt-sized hands on the boy’s shoulder. “Be calm, now. No need to dash home just yet, but can you tell me how they came to you?”

Edward wanted nothing better than to tell and shove off from this situation. “It was Donal, sir, fella from the shift before mine, told me there were a right lovely pair of shoes lifted from a rubbish bin and anyone’s for the taking if they fit.” His words were running together, so anxious was he to spit it out and be done with any trouble. “The other lad’s feet were too big. So, I tried them on and… you know… like Cinderella, I was. Fit perfect, so I kept them. Donal, or actually I think it might have been Fred, left them on the shelf by our key stand, and that’s where I found them. Were – are the shoes stolen, sir?”

Dawson leaned back in his chair with a sigh, wearing a slight grin. All those years being a copper had left him permanently amused at how easily some collapsed on the lightest interrogation. This boy, he knew, was edging toward feeling frantic, and needed to be talked down from the ledge of his own fear. “Breathe, easy, Edward. Are you _sure_ you like ‘Edward’,” he teased, “it seems such a mouthful. I knew an ‘Edward’ once, and we turned him into a ‘Ned’, but I suppose that name’s out of fashion, now. Or perhaps Ted?”

Edward gave him a puzzled look, unsure how to respond. “Er, one of my aunties calls me ‘Ted’ sometimes but…”

“You prefer ‘Edward’ of course, and all the more suited to a civil engineer. I’m sorry to tease. Just wanted to relax you a bit.” Dawson took a sheet of paper from his desk – a schedule, clearly. “Alright so, Donal – that would be Donal Morgan, I see – told you about the shoes, and said they’d been tossed in a bin?”

Edward frowned. “I’m not sure whether they were actually found in a bin or someone had been told to toss them. Not clear on that, sir. Donal or Fred would likely know the whole of it.”

“And Fred is … that would be Alfred McAvoy, I’m guessing?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir,” the boy shrugged, eyes casting about wildly hoping for escape. They landed on the two silent men, who stared back at him wearing identically blank expressions. “I only know him as ‘Fred’. Are you all coppers, sir? Because, I swear, all I know is what I’ve told you. I’ll be glad to go get the shoes… I surely don’t want them if they’re stolen.”

“Aye, we’ll want you to do that, lad,” Dawson ignored his question. “We’ll give you leave to go home and bring them back to me. And directly to me, I mean.” He glanced at the silent men to his left. “Were it up to me, and the circumstances different, I’d say ‘keep them and wear ‘em in good health’ but you see they are, unfortunately, evidence taken from a crime scene, and so –”

“Are they from that room, sir, with the bloodstains? Oh, Lord, I didn’t know!”

Dawson’s eyes went bright. “What room is that, then?”

“The one the police had been all over. Only…” Edward looked around, noting with panic that he’d struck the interest of the others. “Only, I heard there was some sort of attack, some room had been given to an old lady and when she got in, things were slung about, and there were bloody clothes, like there’d been brawling. Were these shoes from that? From the fight?”

“In fact, Edward, they were. Can you tell me what else you might have heard about that room, and the erm…the fight?”

Edward’s ears were bright red. “Well, no sir, not really. Just what I said. A room had been slung around. There was blood, we were all wondering, actually, if that was what had happened to McCartney, weren’t we? That he’d got his bloody head in a fight?”

“Is that so,” Dawson’s eyebrows went up. “That’s what people think happened?”

“Well it was a bit of chatter when we saw the ambulance, sir. The head injury and what-not. But then we figured, he’d not be staying in such an ordinary room, right? So, it was just an idea we chased about a bit when things were slow, you know?”

“An interesting thought,” Dawson murmured, scratching his ear as he looked away, “never thought of McCartney as a brawler, though.”

“No, sir. The thought was more, perhaps he and Lennon had had a bit of a tiff and you know… the Lennon is a hothead.”

“Is that right?” Dawson looked up.

Edward gave a helpless shrug. “Well, he’s known for blowing up, anyway.”

Dawson rose at that, giving another thoughtful-sounding, “Hmm. Well, you can assure your comrades that McCartney’s blood was spilled in the bath in a completely different room. Saw it with my own eyes,” he finished, silently cursing himself for so thoroughly cleaning up the evidence of Paul’s hemorrhage. In his haste to prevent undue gossip, he’d also prevented any sort of alternative narrative to the surprisingly lucid one the car jockeys had created.

Distractedly, he turned back to the boy. “Look, Ned,” his face flushed as he realized his error. “Sorry, Edward, do you go, now. Get the slippers for us – put them in a bag so no one sees, please – and bring them here to me. I would appreciate it very much…” He paused for a moment and then tossed his head in the direction of the men still standing so silently. “ _We_ , actually, would appreciate it, especially since you do not know exactly how the shoes came to the valet stand, if you would not discuss this with anyone else. On the subject of the shoes, we need you to be silent except with us. Is that clear?”

Edward gulped. He was no idiot. Whatever had been going on in this hotel, it had been enough to bring these men about, and they were no ordinary coppers. He ran a hand through his hair, undoing the tap-down he’d managed earlier. What if these men were MI5? Why would they be here? All those nobs the other night, and the two Beatles. What if the shoes belonged to one of them? OBE’s? He’d been wearing a Beatle’s stolen shoes, then? And what if someone did beat up McCartney?

It was all too juicy. And too frightening, too. He wanted no part of MI5’s notice. With his hair now standing on end, he met Dawson’s eye. “I’ll have the shoes to you, sir, and instanter. I’m sure I don’t want them, now, whatever the case.” he said with deep and absolute sincerity.

***

John was dialing the phone.

He stopped. Hung up. Looked around the waiting room as though making certain where he was, then he lifted the receiver again. But who to call? Who to call _first_? Cynthia? George? Jane or Jim? Whoever he called first, the others would be offended. Eyes closed, he made his decision and began to dial again.

“It’s me. It’s John. It’s…” He could barely get the words out. “It’s Paul… he’s… no… he’s awake. The fever is broke... it's broken...an-and the crisis is past. We’re not losing him. He’s not leaving me… he’s not… he’s not _leaving_ me. Mimi, he’s going to live.”

And then he burst into tears.

He had almost not stayed the night. Cynthia had pulled him into her arms and almost begged John to come home with her. “We can come back early in the morning, but come home with me, now, love…”

But he couldn’t do it. Something had been nagging at him to stay. Perhaps it was the look in old Jim McCartney’s eyes when Brian had offered him a ride back to the hotel and Jim had looked right to John, as if asking the silent question, _must my son be left all alone?_ John had heard him as clearly as he might have heard it coming from Paul’s eyes.

Or perhaps he simply wanted to reclaim his primacy – _spousal_ primacy, he wished he could say it – after George had so peremptorily usurped him the other night. Either way, he had needed to stay.

And now, he was so glad he had. So glad to have been there the moment Paul had opened his beautiful eyes and trained them so directly, so clearly, on John.

Lennon had been pacing in the hallway – the waiting room, as luxurious as it was by hospital standards, was beginning to feel small and cramped. The hallways were the closest he could get to making a good stretch of the legs, and he’d been walking something of a circuit, down one hall, across another, over and over. As he had each time he’d reached Paul’s room, he’d paused a moment to look in. When he saw one of the attending sisters leaning over his partner’s form, her expression all agitated, his panic button was hit, and hard. Thinking the worst, he strode to her side in a mere second. “Wha—what’s wrong, Mother,” he asked, a slight tremble in his voice.

When the older woman raised her face to him, she seemed almost luminous. “Look at him,” she beamed at John. “Drenched to the skin, he his.”

John looked down. The woman was right. Paul was soaking wet, hair plastered to his head, hospital gown clinging to him and almost gone transparent from the saturation, his pale face dewy with beads of sweat.

“The fever is broken,” the nurse marveled, giving John’s arm an excited tug with both of her hands and smiling up at him. “He’s made it, love. He’s made it through.”

John’s hands had gone to his face as he let out a slow breath he’d held too long. “He’s…” He looked to Paul and then back to the nurse. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, still grinning widely and took John’s hand in her own, holding it above Macca’s head. “See for yourself, dear…”

John settled his hand on Paul’s forehead and felt it: clammy, actually a bit chilly from the wet, and no sign of that terrifyingly dry heat that had been radiating off of Paul since his collapse at the hotel. “He’s cool,” John whispered to her, his eyes wide. “He’s…”

It was quite a surprise to the sister to have nearly the full weight of John Winston Lennon thrown so suddenly into her arms. She nearly reeled into a wall before she finding her footing. “He’s going to live, right?” John was pleading into her ear, sounding for all the world like a little boy seeking reassurance. “This isn’t just a ‘hopeful’ thing, right? He’s going to _live? Yes?_ Please, yes?”

“There, there, son,” she managed, channeling her own motherhood for his sake. “Yes. I’m telling you _yes_ ,” she said with emphasis. “Barring something completely unforeseen, very likely ‘yes’, he will get back on his feet and live a good long time, now. Don’t cry, now lad…it’s a happy thing.”

He hadn’t been able to stall the tears, and for a moment he really was awash in them and indulging himself. “Thank God. Thank you, God. Thank you, sister, all of you…thank you.”

The nurse gave John a reassuring squeeze and then pulled away. “He’ll catch his death of cold, though, if we let him lay in that wet. We’ll get him changed and all, won’t we? You stay, now, and see if he opens his eyes a bit while I –”

She had toddled off, heading to the nurses station while still talking, but John had stopped hearing her as soon as he looked down and saw Macca stirring, his eyelashes fluttering.

He leaned over the bed, taking one of Paul’s hands – a miraculously cool, marvelously clammy hand – into his own. “Paul,” he said softly. “Baby, wake up. Are you with me?”

With a deep breath, Paul was suddenly awake, his eyes opening bit by bit, until finally they settled on John, who could see clarity and right understanding in them, and who couldn’t help but smile. “ _There_ you are… my darling.”

“Cold…” was all Paul could murmur as he shivered just a little.

“Of course you are, love, you’re covered in sweat, aren’t ya? We’re gonna see to that.” At that John brought his face down, resting his cheek on Paul’s, one arm draping across him in an approximation of a hug. “You’ve done it, baby. Your fever’s beaten.” His voice broke as his lips grazed the shell Macca’s ear and his other hand began to stroke his hair. “We’re going to be okay. D’ye hear me, babe, we’re going to be alright. God… I love you. I love you, Paul. We’re going to be alright.”

“John…” A sigh.

John pulled back, an anxious look on his face. “What is it. Are you okay?”

Paul gazed at him, too weak to do more than lie there, but a small smile playing at his lips as he held their eye-contact. _“Johnny…”_

When the nurse returned, with two other smiling sisters in tow, the three of them unexpectedly intruded upon a conversation, at once silent and intense, between the two young men. Their hands were entwined, their eyes saw only each other, and the force of their shared focus – the distinct and busy energy between them -- seemed to fill up the room.

John stepped aside to let the women bring an impressive efficiency to what needed doing. Six hands made for short work and in fine order Paul was relieved of his gown while his sheets were changed with astonishing quickness, even as the women moved delicately around a catheter and drainage tubes. Paul seemed not to notice them as they rearranged an arm here, a limb, there. His gaze was all for John, his eyes slightly crinkled along with the smallest sort of smile.

John Lennon, on the other hand, was staring just as intently, but with the grin of a child at Christmas. His expression was openly, nakedly, full of love for the man before him.

“Mr. Lennon,” one of the nurses said as she raised one of Paul’s shoulders and placed toweling behind him, “no, don’t try to move, dear,” she suddenly said toward Paul, “you’re much too weak, you know. Let us handle you.”

She turned her attention back to John. “We’ll need to be very thorough just now, so if you don’t mind…”

“I’ll do it,” John offered, barely even registering her words.

“Indeed, you’ll not,” the woman huffed up a little. “He needs his hair washed, and his whole body bathed--”

“I can do his arms, and his chest,” John said, still wearing that dopey grin. “And his face.” Finally, he broke his eyes from Paul’s. “Please let me. The day-nurses do, you know. I even shaved him yesterday…”

Paul raised a hand to his face, wonderingly. “Aye, love,” John told him. “Shaved you with your dad, didn’t I? Can you believe it?”

“Really,” Paul croaked, his voice dry from disuse.

“We did. Shaved you together.” John trained his look away from the distressingly intubated lower half of his partner’s body. “And we had a nice long talk, too, while we did it.”

Paul’s grin broadened. “Don’t believe it.”

“Believe it, love,” John tilted his head up, offering him a sip of water. “We had a straight razor between us, and everything. Could’ve got messy. But… it was good.”

Paul swallowed a bit of water while much more dribbled down his neck. “How good, then?”

John, bringing his face very near, smiled again. “He told me he _doesn’t_ hate me.” Deciding he didn’t care what the nurses saw, he kissed Paul’s forehead before settling the glass back. “And he made me the boss of you.”

Paul licked his lips, prompting a nurse to swab at them with a moistened sponge. “The hell you say,” he managed, still with that wisp of a smile.

“God as my witness, son. Until you’re all better, I’m the boss of you. And even after, if need be.”

The nurses smiled at each other at John’s cheekiness. “Sounds like there’s about to be a barny, here,” the eldest one said. “You two will not fight while Mr. McCartney is under our care.” She slipped a wet flannel into John’s hands. “If I may say it, sir, you need to be busy with something other than your mouth, so here. Use this to rinse where I’ve soaped.”

John winked at her and obeyed instantly. And the silent conversation between Lennon and McCartney was resumed between them, quite excluding the nurses who – if you had asked them – would say they could nevertheless hear every word.

Paul, exhausted, had fallen asleep shortly after the bath was finished, and warmed towels had dabbed him dry. Settled between fresh sheets and blankets, a new hospital gown on his person and his hair fluffy and dry thanks to John’s vigorous efforts, he drifted into slumber as peacefully as an infant, one hand resting in his partner’s.

“Mimi,” John had whispered wetly, joyfully, into the first of the half-dozen phone calls would make from the waiting room, watching through the glass as his lover slept. “It's the best day of my life. Paul is back with me. He’s back. _And he’s going to live…”_

  
  



	24. Every Good Boy Deserves Favour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul is out of the hospital -- or his body is; his mind on the other hand, is all over the place as he recalls the rough process of healing, and Paris in all of it's ache and loss. He wanted so very much to be in a flat of his own, alone with his thoughts. But his thoughts are not good thoughts. Let me put it this way: The title I almost used for this chapter was Dead Paul on the Sofa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologize for taking so long on this chapter. I really, really wanted to write it, but a virus (not covid) plus a heavy work schedule had me too exhausted to tackle writing, no matter how much I wanted. Hopefully, I will not be so long with the next update. I thank you for all the notes and great comments, and for all of you sticking with this story. This chapter is not fun, but it is informational and shifts the scene. We're finally out of the hospital! Yay!

Kissing his father and brother goodbye after their five-day visit, Paul hurried away from the elevator and down the hallway, back to his flat. He closed the door behind him and then immediately locked it, turning the deadbolt, then unlocking it and doing it again, to reassure himself that it was done correctly.

He was alone, now, for the first time since… well, really since he was fifteen, if he really thought about it. But alone, yeah, for the first time since… since everything had changed, and forever.

And he was terrified.

He needed… he needed… anyone. Someone.

He needed to be here. But not really.

What he needed, what he wanted, was to not be alone, ever, ever again.

Paul peered at the clock, remembering that someone would be there, soon. _Jane_ , he thought. It might be Jane who was coming and staying the night with him. At least one night, maybe more.

Someone would be there, soon, he knew that.

Soon…

 _You can do this_ , he told himself. _Go make yourself some tea. Take a nap. That will kill an hour or more. And then someone will be here_.

He had wanted this space. A place of his own, in London, where he would avoid the eyes and questions of the Ashers, or of his step-family up north in Wirral. A place to call “home” that didn’t involve having to deal with the curiosities or sympathies of anyone else. A place where he could come and go as he pleased, without explaining, or he could just stay in, and not explain that, either.

A place to lick his wounds until they could begin to heal... Feel no pressure about having to be… having to love…

Having to find something in himself that had been lost.

Or, maybe not lost, maybe destroyed.

As a kid in Liverpool he’d learned the lesson. What’s been struck by a bomb, what’s been pulverized by a powerful blast, just turns to dust. It can’t be reclaimed, only carried off, something new erected in its place.

Something new. _But I don’t want to be something new. I want to be me, still. Me, again_. _I used to love being me. More than I ever realized._

He drew fresh water into the tea kettle and settled it on the stove, turning on the gas flame beneath it.

A moment later he turned the flame off with a shaking hand. No, couldn’t trust it. Couldn’t trust himself not to do a mental wade-away, forgetting the kettle. Too much like playing with fire.

He wondered again at the wisdom of living alone. He had begged Brian to find something for him. Something in town, but not centrally so, something safe but alone. Some place to go that wasn’t touching anyone else’s place.

And Brian had come through.

He’d asked it of Brian perhaps on the sixth day after his fever had broken, or, “6AC” as he had come to think of his re-emergence after the fever crisis.

That was what his life felt like now. There was his whole life “BC” – 23 Years Before the Crisis. Before… everything. And then there was “AC” – “After Crisis” -- the place he was living in now. If you could call it _after_. If you could call it _living_.

Post-fever, at four days AC, things had started to become clearer; he had begun to fully emerge from the gauzy sort of “there-he-is-now-he’s-gone” game of peek-a-boo he’d been playing ‘til then. Up to that point he still been sleeping more than he was awake – which the nurses had declared was to be expected. “Sleep is restorative and his poor body needs it,” they told everyone enough times for it to get boring, but it did seem to be true. Any little bit of time Paul spent awake was followed by long periods of heavy sleep, no drugs needed.

In those moments when he did awaken, Paul would always be thirsty, and after managing some water, he would look appreciatively at whoever had helped him – a nurse, one of the lads, his father or Jane -- and smile. But he remained rather quiet.

He was grateful to them all. He loved them all. He would die for any of them. But on some level, he wished they would all go away and let him alone. Give him time to think, to work out what had gone wrong. To find the exact moment when he’d unknowingly gulped down something bad and, perhaps in that memory, discover who else had been around him.

Whom he might have, all without knowing it, treated stupidly.

The person, the men, who might have wanted to hurt him like this, to get even.

He needed some room, some space, to think about that.

Instead, once he’d passed the crisis, Paul’s hospital room became a hyperactive place. If his family and friends no longer felt the need to remain anxiously near him throughout the night, never could he open his eyes without finding someone peering intently at him and then smiling in relief to see him there. The sisters were lovely if briskly efficient; they swept about his person as though he was an ornament in constant need of service and attentive cleaning. There was a constant bustle of sheet-changing and bathing and combing. It seemed to Paul that his personal hygiene had never before eaten up so much time in his life.

Then, at some point in the day John would get him shaved -- with his own safety razor, brought from home, thank you very much, and not that mad straight blade the nurses kept around. This time between them was a quietly intense affair that had as much to do with being able to touch and be touched without judgement, as it did with shaving. And it was about being able to concentrate on each other -- to share looks and speak silently together as they were wont to do -- without others thinking much of it. Paul appreciated the effort, and he did enjoy the way Lennon drew the whole act out, which annoyed the sisters. But it was exhausting, too, and he’d as soon have shaved himself, were his hands steady enough to manage it.

Ringo would come by, always a bit too busy, his hands beating on the mattress or the bedpost, telling amusing stories about his son and bring along treats Maureen had baked and that everyone but Paul, including the nurses, would wolf down.

Jane came every day after rehearsals for the Christmas pantomime she’d been cast in; she would sit on his bed with him, shoulder-to-hip (so tiny she barely took up any room at all) and hold his hand and share the salty gossip of Londontown with him. He wasn’t terribly interested; in truth her friends were not really his, and vice-versa. But [her presence was dear, as was her affection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19217335), and her hand was soft in his, and she smelled nice – sweetly floral against all that antiseptic stuff. All of it felt so soothing to Paul that he would eventually drift away to the sound of her sweet voice, waking up later to find her gone.

Usually George would replace Jane, and Paul would come back to full consciousness to the sound of his oldest friend playing something soothing and beautiful on an acoustic guitar. For a while Hazza was rediscovering the old Bach exercises they’d both plied away at, by ear, as kids. He played discreetly, chatting of old times with Paul. “Remember this,” he would ask, smiling from his chair as he traveled the fretboard and plucked away. It made Paul’s fingers itch to get back at it.

And yet, no. He had no idea how to tell anyone about the music that had gone missing from him. How to tell John that he’d lost his interior soundtrack – could no longer hear the melodies that had, all his life, run continuously in the background of his mind, just waiting for the chance to bubble up. John, who these days was just so happy – always just so happy -- to have Paul back, even if he seemed not to realize that his Macca was now a different person. That the thing that had brought them together might be lost, now.

That was a conversation for later, Paul knew. But he was anxious about it, biting his nails to the quick as he wondered how their relationship could exist without music.

His favorite time of the day – to Paul’s own surprise, and to Eppy’s too – had become the evening, when Brian would show up at the end of his business day, after reassuring the press that Paul was recovering and would soon be released from hospital, after supper, when everyone else had gone to their respective homes and there was nothing to be heard but the weary steps of nurses moving back and forth, still recording Paul’s vitals and patting his shoulder and fussing over him. Brian had decided to read _Great Expectations_ to Paul – the volume that John had given up on back on that night (it felt like so long ago…) when he and Paul had simply shared a bed, snuggling and ‘talking nonsense’ and trying to pretend all would soon be well.

Brian, it turned out, was a splendid reader with a gift for narrative and voices, probably honed a bit during his brief time studying at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, and he told the Dickens tale with great attention to the characters of Pip and Estelle and Joe Gargery and Miss Havisham. His reading gave Paul an entertaining break from reality, permitting the lad his first real taste of something unsullied by the filth of those flashes of memory that were still assailing him, or the lingering sense of danger he was refusing to openly express to anyone, himself included.

It was during one of those nights of reading that Paul had asked Brian if he could make a few inquiries -- find someplace for him to live for a few months. “At least until the renovations at Cavendish are done,” he said.

The request had come after a difficult day. Paul, finally alert enough to really process the post-surgical attentions the sisters were giving him, had been feeling humiliated in a hundred different ways. He didn’t mind the twice-a-day massages to his limbs that meant shooing away visitors and closing the curtains. The sisters were jovial during those times, teasing him about his long, furry limbs and reminding him that his once he was back on his feet, he’d be glad for all the kneading and light punching they were subjecting his muscles to. One of the nurses even 'finished' by brushing his hairy legs -- she called it 'nerve stroking' -- something with relaxed Paul almost as well as any joint ever could.

The _rest_ of it, though. The rest was almost unbearable. After wringing his calf and thigh muscles and rotating his joints, the sisters would grow more serious as they attended to his surgical site. Twice a day they would have to address any issues of hygiene that involved the catheter extending out of his prick, which managed his urine output, and the drainage tube up his arse that prevented him from yet leaving his bed.

These were sites that needed cleaning and examination, and he very quickly began to dread the end of the massages, which meant a lowering of the bed until he was flat on his back and, eventually, a careful placement of his legs into stirrups, leaving him as vulnerable as any woman about to give birth. Or about to be plunged into, and examined.

Or about to be raped.

The nurses were invariably gentle -- exceedingly kind, respectful and grave as they went about their business – but every day, twice a day, it felt like an additional violation, to Paul, and his sense of shame would overwhelm him until he felt like death could not be worse.

On this particular day, he had stared at the ceiling, trying to control the anxiety arising in his chest by concentrating on his breathing. _A big inhale. A slow exhale. Look at nothing, lad, just go away from yourself for a minute... It’s almost over. It’s almost over._

Paul would find himself looking at the curtain rods in the same way he had looked at doorframes on that terrible night, because a doorframe represented a place from which help might come. During these mortifying moments in the stirrups, it felt the same for him, except that he was waiting for deliverance by the sight of billowing fabric.

He could feel the gentle tugs and swipes that went along with whatever they were so discreetly seeing to down there, and it occurred to him for the first time – because he was finally well enough to think it – that these women, (hell, probably the entire hospital) were privy to the truth about James Paul McCartney. That he was a man who’d been raped – who’d been held down while filthy, strange, uninvited cocks had been shoved up inside his ass, and down his throat. That he was a man who’d been nearly ripped to shreds by God only knew who, and was now ruined – no good to anyone as a lover, barely a man at all.

That he was used up, and broken, and weak. Good for nothing and no one. And that the men who had brought him to this point had promised to do it again.

Well, they didn’t know that last bit, the nurses, not yet and hopefully not ever.

But Paul knew it. _Next time, we’ll let him stay awake for the party_. The words lingered on the brink of his every thought, like a fire raging along the periphery of his mind, and threatening to engulf and destroy everything he’d ever been, ever could be.

And so, as the sisters did their work, he had looked up at nothing, talking himself through his breaths, recoiling at one point from sensitivity as an older nurse – assisted by a pretty, younger one – had been rougher than she’d intended. “I am sorry, dearie,” she had murmured to him after noting the flinch, “that’s still a bit tender, I know. But you’re healing, love.”

“Love,” she had said. “Dearie”.

The words fell from her lips so naturally toward him they could have come from his Auntie Jin’s own mouth. Or his mother’s. All of the sisters knew his mother had been a nurse, too, and they seemed to treat him with an especial deference for it.

But at that moment, no amount of sweet words, no gentleness, or deferential treatment could have stopped the silent tears of humiliation that slid from the corners of Paul’s eyes as he endured their attentions. He'd not been able to suppress the gasp of misery at the overwhelming sense of shame he was experiencing, and that same sister, when she had finished, had sidled up to him, her face so filled with understanding that Paul could only cry harder. "You're a fine young man, dear, and I know none of this is easy. No man wants women fussing in such ways over him. But please know this. There is not a sister or doctor, or even a custodian on this floor who is not all for you, rooting for you, and doing all they can to preserve your dignity and your confidence." She had dabbed at his eyes and temples with a bit of gauze and raised his bed back up, offering him water and continuing as he drank. "There's been people trying to come 'round, you know, trying to get in here in this restricted area, or trying other floors, offering money for a snapshot, or for any details. I want you to know it is a matter of honor for us -- all of us -- to have brought each one of those low-down scoundrels to the attention of the men who are always here. The ones in the suits."

Paul had looked at her in confusion. There were men? In suits?

"Why yes, Lord, love you. You're under protection, you are. Well, look around, you. then, and be sure. Not everyone gets such a room, with a whole suite besides, for your friends."

He hadn't noticed. Hadn't realized. Been too sick to see it. Was still too sick, in a way. But he had heard the woman and her message, -- _"We are all for you...it's a matter of honor..."_ \-- and had reached out and taken her hand, giving it a squeeze. "I thank you, for that, Sister," he said. "I know my mum, she... she never talked about her patients, either, except to say how brave they were. She was ' _all for them_ ', too, just like you. You all remind me of Mary McCartney, so strong like her. You all have that grace about you."

She had squeezed his hand back, and then -- it was inevitable with these motherly types -- pinched his cheek. "She raised a stout and courageous lad, son. Don't think we can't recognize a sister's child when we see one," and with that she had kissed his forehead and toddled off to do something efficient. 

Her words had helped, truly. Still, he felt more like a machine than a man, sometimes, especially when his surgical site was being cleaned. And he was embarrassed by the presence of the younger nurse, whose eyes were always so round with sympathy whenever he caught her looking his way.

Paul McCartney, _the cute Beatle_. Reduced to being cleaned and maintained in his most private and intimate places by a pretty girl he might once have confidently winked at and had Mal bring up to his room for an after-show romp, and who now would never look at him that way. As though any woman who knew ever could.

Jane… his gut told him that Jane and he were through. _She knew_. He had no doubt she knew it too.

And John… did John yet understand? Did he have the first inkling that Paul could never be… _that_ for John again. And given the flashes of memory, the instinctive revulsion he now felt at the idea of being sexual with anyone, of any erection, even his own, being acceptable to him, well… he doubted he could ever make love to anyone, again. Ever be _that_ for John, either. Anytime a memory of their intimacies began to intrude – even the memory of Paris, _God, Paris!_ – the insecurities that gripped at his heart would make him breathless and panicked and wishing he had enough privacy to groan out loud, or to weep without secrecy.

Even the good memories, even [the purest and most beautiful of them](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611301) – ( _Paris, Paris_ ) -- no longer felt safe. Everything was now tainted. _Ruined_.

How could John ever love him, really love him, _still_ love him, without the physical? Paul knew what John had said – could still hear the sweet tone of his voice, _“_[ _lying here with you now, I realize that any little bit of Paul, is my Paul entire.”_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/53695864)

Anyone could say it _,_ Paul had thought as he remembered. Saying the words was easy, especially if you were trying to convince yourself of them _. Living those words would be different._

He didn’t doubt John’s love. But he understood how supremely needy John was, in so many ways. A Macca who could no longer love him in any physical way, particularly in that possessive way that made John feel so secure and so lovingly ‘owned’…

_He won’t stay. Not because he doesn’t love me. He’ll just need more than I can ever be for him. Ever again. John needs everything. And I'm nothing._

These new awarenesses, his new sense of vulnerability, and particularly the dense sense of shame that now hung round him like the curtains pulled about his bed twice a day, had made Paul testy all that afternoon – short with everyone, including John, whom he’d at some point called “the greatest beast in nature.”

John had only smiled at him, saying, “You must be feeling better, love, you’ve not called me that in months.”

One of the nurses, though, who’d been taking Paul’s temperature for the millionth time, had simply nodded, beaming at John before padding away, saying, “It’s always a good sign when they begin to grouse…”

Paul had felt badly about it, especially after John had left, first bringing his cheek close to Macca’s and whispering “I’ll see you tomorrow, Babe. I love you,” into his ear.

He didn’t want to snarl at anyone, and certainly not John. But yes, he’d been feeling restless and over-managed – weary of his invalid status – and that’s when he’d interrupted Brian’s reading and asked whether he might find him a place. “After I’m released,” he’d blurted. “I can’t go with Jane. I just… I can’t, you know. I’m not ready for that.”

“Understandable,” Brian had murmured, closing the book on his finger to hold the page. “I suspect staying with John is also not something you want?”

“No, no…” Paul had been quick to answer. “Not with Cyn and her mother and the baby. I… no.”

“You know you’re free to use my house, Paul. It’s at your disposal.”

“That’s kind of you, Brian,” Paul had said, meeting his eyes. “I do appreciate it. But no, I’d not put you out of your place. I need my own flat, or a cottage or something. Someplace quiet. I just… I need it. Can you help me? Perhaps find me a place I can rent for… I don’t know, up to a year, maybe?”

Brian, certain a year would not be necessary and unsure whether Paul should be alone at all, had consulted John Dawson about it. “It’s not a terrible idea,” Dawson had responded. “The boy is feeling overwhelmed and doesn't need additional pressures put on him. He'd ball himself up and make himself ill just trying to maintain the social niceties when he needs to be working on simply getting better. But it would have to be somewhere that can make him feel both independent and safe. If you can find a cottage behind a gate, or an apartment with a discerning doorman,” Dawson had said, not needing to add that it should be somewhere quickly gotten to for the rest of them.

What Brian had found was a flat in an exclusive area of Belgravia – a building that catered mostly to older members of established families, (‘ _old money with older connections’_ Brian had thought to himself, _'people who understand the need for discretion')._ This particularly flat happened to belong to an actor looking to sublet for a year while he was away filming in Northern Africa. As the place had already gone unleased for four months, the fellow had let Brian have it at a good rate. An eight month sublet, Brian had thought, was perfect. Enough to get Paul back on his feet in time to do some recording and prepare to tour again.

And Dawson had approved. The building had been designed for privacy, each floor containing only two apartments. The lift opened to a common area leading to doors at opposite ends. A resident need not see anyone but the lift operator, the concierge and the doorman, if that was what he or she desired.

Brian was right in thinking that this was _precisely_ what Paul desired: a place where he needn’t worry about curious eyes, long noses or intruding fans. Strangers would not have easy access. And who would ever look for a Beatle in such a retiring sort of place?

Yes, Brian had come through with this flat, and Paul was grateful as he paced around this place filled with fine art, comfortable furnishings, and even featuring a baby grand piano, which Eppy had made sure was voiced and perfectly tuned before Paul was out of hospital. He’d found just the right place.

And yet, Paul considered, perhaps he’d done wrong by him, too. Perhaps Brian should have lied and said there was nothing available -- urged him to go home with Jane, or to his father’s after all, stepmother be damned.

Because it would be so easy, in this place, to just open the oven door, turn on the gas and go lay on the couch… just go to sleep. Then it would all go away.

But someone was coming, he thought, aching in this brief solitude. The concierge had a list of who could visit. John, maybe. Or Jane, or George. And they might come too late, and then have to deal with Dead Paul On the Sofa.

Or they might come too soon, and rescue him.

He couldn’t bear the selfishness inherent in the first thought. To do that to people who had been so concerned, and attentive, and loving. People he loved back.

He couldn’t bear the second thought, either. To have to face them with the full reality of his fear, and of everything he now hated about himself.

Wandering around in circles, he finally rested on the piano bench, drawn as though by a magnet. With a sigh, he opened the keyboard and placed one finger on Middle C.

Lovely tone.

He played a C major chord, touching a pedal and letting the sound resonate until its waves drifted back into silence. He moved his hand to the right, fingers lingering over what would have been an E minor 7 chord – brought his left hand up to mirror it.

No. He couldn’t play it. With his index fingers, he stroked the keys that made up the treble clef. E-G-B-D-F

 _Every good boy deserves favor_. Maybe he hadn’t been a good enough boy, after all. 

F-A-C-E: _Face!_ Sometimes Ringo called him that: _“Hey, Face, you gonna noodle at that piano all day or play real music?”_

He closed the lid over the keyboard and rose, starting to pace again. He wanted a cup of tea badly. He didn’t want to look at the oven.

 _I wonder how much longer I will have to be alive_.

The thought flew through his head like an egret – a startlingly white thing, quickly passing through – and it shocked Paul. He pressed his fingertips to his temples, as though to block the thought from re-entering, and wondered whether he was hungry or tired.

He didn’t hate the world. He didn’t feel like the world hated him. But he must be hungry, right? He remembered having tea and a slice of toast at breakfast, his father hectoring him to try some bacon, or a few spoonsful of scrambled eggs.

_Scrambled eggs, oh, my baby, how I love your legs…_

Had his father and brother left after breakfast, then? How long had it been since he’d locked the door? He couldn’t recall eating lunch.

He must be hungry, then, yeah? Then why didn’t he feel it?

Paul had always been a poor eater, but food had become an issue while he was in the hospital. Between his initial fever, the post-surgery complication and then the period of healing -- the long process of rectal drainage and suture absorption -- Paul had eaten nothing. He’d partaken of little more than water or tea for nearly ten days and the weight loss was dreadful on him, left him looking frail and weak, dark shadows showing under his eyes, which now looked almost freakishly black and round within his thinned-out face. “Yer head looks enormous, Macca,” George had teased. “You look like a giant lolly on a stick. We need to get some baby fat back into those cheeks.”

But when it was time, finally, for Paul to eat, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bear the thought of digesting food and having to expel it. [The thought of the pain, the memory of the blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/54173620)… Intellectually he knew his wounds were pronounced ‘healed’ and that blood and pain would no longer be part of the process. But emotionally, in his heart, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t eat and risk it happening again.

“Lovey,” one of the motherly sorts of nurses told him, “you’ll not be released until we know your locks and tumblers are all in working order. We’ve got to know your insides are up and running or you’ll be back here within a week. Be a good lad and eat some porridge. Miss Jane says you love it. Or at least have a bit of toast and jam.”

Paul’s stomach had rumbled at the sight and scent of the food she was offering, but he couldn’t open his mouth. He shook his head, looking away, unable to meet her eyes.

“We can’t take a picture of _that_ ,” Brian had teased, showing Paul his ghastly reflection in a hand mirror. The lad had to admit he looked like hell. On Day 2AC Brian had taken a photo of the whole band surrounding Paul in his hospital bed – a sop to the press and the fans demanding to know that Paul was truly recovering from his “accident.” The world saw the Beatles, all smiling, thumbs up, Paul McCartney in the middle of the pack, clearly emerging from something, but managing a smile and a thumbs up as well.

Eppy would have been glad to send out another such photo upon Paul’s release – the boys all together, with Paul on his feet -- but it wouldn’t be possible with him looking so thin and ragged. “You need to eat, Paul,” he urged gently, one night. “If you don’t, you’re never getting out of here. And by God, I don’t want to have to have to suddenly figure out how to make George the cute one.”

“Aye, or me,” Ringo had added when Paul had repeated Brian’s words, next day.”

It was John Lennon who finally saw the way through, Paul’s accidental hunger strike, appearing one late morning carrying a brown bag and a large paper cup. He pulled up next to Paul who – finally released from his drainage tubes and able to walk around a bit, had wandered into the waiting suite and found the sofa and the tea, and the cigarettes, and was contemplating his bounty. “Now, listen, Paulie,” John had said in a firm voice and not caring who heard. “Your father put me in charge of you, and he wants you the hell out of this place, now. You’ll eat all of this.”

A sister came charging at him demanding to know what he was giving her patient. “You’ll not just barge in here feeding him any old thing,” she’d clucked like a protective mother hen. “He needs soft foods – oats and coddled eggs! Fruits and vegetables, just yet.”

“Calm yourself, Mother, or go ahead and coddle him an egg,” John had smiled. “Do you want him to eat, or not?” He’d turned to Paul, leaning close and putting the cup into his hand. “Macca, if you don’t drink this, you’ll break my heart, okay? You really will.”

“What is it,” Paul asked suspiciously.

“Just have it, love. For me, wouldja?”

Paul took a tentative sip from the straw, his eyes widening at the taste. He looked at John, who was gazing at him with a soft look. His eyes were wet behind his thick lenses, and the sight of him made Paul want to cry, himself.

“John,” he said, pulling the drink away, too overwhelmed to speak.

Lennon shoved it back to his mouth. “ _All the banana shakes you want_ , babe. Remember? Paris? Please, please drink it, hon. Let’s start your engine, _please?”_

Paul made slow work of it. The sister, annoyed and watchful, would return to the door again and again, continually warning him not to drink too much of the rich concoction too quickly, and risk it coming back up. John was leaning his own head on Paul’s and whispering encouragement. “We’re walkin’ along the Seine, and [you’ve an angel in your pocket that I know nothing about](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119496), and we stop for lunch. Hamburgers and milk for me. A banana shake for you…”

“And you’re lookin’ at all the couples makin’ out,” Paul finally murmured back at him, smiling around the straw.

“Aye, and you’re trying to pull me into another feckin church to hear the bells.”

The memories of Paris were still delightful to John, who clearly thought a better memory might help Paul along. He was wrong; remembering was making the younger lad’s heart ache, but he wanted to please his partner, who truly deserved a win, and so Paul went along with it. John was satisfied when he’d managed to get half the shake down. “A good start,” he said happily, looking at the nurse who, her jaw set in annoyance, still managed a nod of approval.

“And now,” he reached into the paper bag he’d brought, “ _Voila, mon ami!”_ in his hand were a dozen bright lollies in a variety of flavors, along with an assortment of small candied fruits. “I figure if we can’t get you to eat like a normal person, we can always appeal to your sweet-tooth, yeah? Get you up to hamburger speed soon enough?”

Once his digestive juices kicked into gear thanks to the milk and sugars, Paul had managed, over two days, to have eaten and moved his bowels enough to satisfy all and sundry that he possessed a body capable of processing nourishment and waste – that he was back to being a basic living being. His appetite was still non-existent, but it was enough. “Once he gets home and comfortable among his own things, you’ll see,” one of the nurses had assured Jane. “He’ll be looking for cake and milk and meat pies…”

Finally, twelve days after his surgery (10 AC in Paul’s mind) Eppy’s office had been able to release a rather dark and grainy picture of Paul, John and George inside a limo and waving. Along with the image went a brief explanation. _Less than two weeks after surgery to address an accidental head injury, Beatle Paul McCartney makes an early-morning escape from hospital, in the company of his bandmates. The Beatles plan to be back at work on their next album shortly after the new year._

And George and John (and Eppy) had brought him here. His father and Michael had been waiting, and had stayed with Paul for five long days, urging food on him, watching him sleep fitfully on the couch at odd times or wander around the flat in a lost fashion. Twice his father had slapped hats on both their heads and forced Paul to take a brisk turn around the building in the chilly fresh air which, Paul had to admit, he had enjoyed, even as he kept looking behind his shoulder.

And now… Paul was having his first _alone time_ and he was hating it, hating how terrified he felt, forever wondering whether the men who had hurt him knew where he was, and would come for him. _“Next time, we’ll let him stay awake…”_

He _was_ hungry though. He thought he was, anyway. And someone was coming. Hopefully bringing food. He heard the tap-tap at the door, the agreed upon signal Dawson had insisted everyone use. _Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap._

Listening intently and deciding the knock was correctly done, Paul undid the locks and opened the door.

It wasn’t Jane.

It wasn’t Jane, and Paul found himself sighing in relief to see a box from the local fish and chippie’s, being born in the huge, safe hands of John Dawson, himself.


	25. I've Just Seen a Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Dawson comes to spend the night with Paul, and to give him some information about his attackers. It doesn't go well, as Paul puts a few things together. Dawson ends up betraying something about himself which will need to be fully fleshed out in the next chapter.
> 
> **TRIGGER WARNING: This is discussion about pimping and buying a person to 'roughhouse' with. Please note the ********* asteriskes ********* if you wish to avoid that.**

John Dawson wasn’t surprised that Paul was glad to see him, although he was taken aback just a bit when the young man dragged him in, closed the door behind him in a flurry of busy locking-up and then literally flung himself into the detective’s arms.

For a moment Dawson just stood there with an amused look on his face. Both arms were outstretched, holding greasy boxes of food, while in between them one of the most famous and beloved musicians in the world had attached himself to his barrel chest, like a leech.

“Alright, there, Paul?” He asked.

“Just really glad to see you,” Paul answered as he pulled away with a blush. “I’ve missed you.”

“And I you. But come on, now, let’s get this fish heated up.” Dawson led them both into the kitchen, allowing Paul to relieve him of his overcoat and hat. He searched around until he found proper pans and emptied the quickly-cooling supper into them then shoved both into the same oven that had so intimidated Paul earlier, fearlessly turning it on.

“Nothing worse than fish and chips when they’ve gone tepid and begun to congeal. And the wind’s blowin’ so fierce I’m pretty sure it’s nipped my balls clean off, so let’s have some hot tea, shall we?” He turned up the flame, a man completely in control of his environment. Having so recently done battle with the tea kettle and taken the loss, Paul stood in an odd and awestruck wonder at the sight of him.

“Thank you. I wanted tea.”

“Why didn’t you make it, then, son?”

Paul shrugged helplessly. “You know… I can’t rightly say. I just… felt defeated by it. Was afraid I’d go off in my head and forget the kettle. Burn the place down.”

Dawson considered him for a moment and then nodded his head, as though Paul had expressed a reasonable fear. He began searching through the kitchen cabinets and handing plates, cups and cutlery to the lad. “Feeling a bit shell-shocked are you? Bein’ on your own?”

“Aye, a bit,” Paul admitted as he began, very naturally, to set the table. Dawson’s easy manner was already making him feel more normal. The detective nosed around the shelves and cabinets and bit more, making a happy exclamation when he found a bottle of whiskey. “Tea with whiskey and fish. Just the ticket for a cold evening, aye?”

Paul looked up and nodded with a small smile. “Sounds perfect.”

The simple meal of hot fish and spiked tea, and the direct, reassuring small talk he and Dawson shared as they ate, seemed to bring Paul around to himself as he made a good meal of it. By the second cuppa – heavier on the liquor than the first – he had managed to pick off the last of the chips and wondered aloud if his father had left any goodies behind, getting up to look about. With a victorious exclamation he returned to the table with the lightly sweetened tea biscuits Jim McCartney favored and the men devoured those as well.

“I’d say you were a bit hungry, lad.”

“I was,” Paul admitted, chewing, uncharacteristically, with his mouth open, like a kid. “Don’t think I ate after brekkie.”

“You’re not sure?”

Macca’s expression turned guilty. “Been fading in and out-like,” he admitted. “Not sure what to do with myself. I’m…” He sighed, finally pushing his plate away. “I couldn’t wait for my Da and Mike to leave, you know? Five days felt like plenty and I kept feeling like… I was glad to have them here, but I kept thinking I wasn’t going to feel meself until they left, you know? Figured that’s when I’d start to feel normal, when there was no one fussing on me. And then they left and…”

Paul chuckled unconvincingly, as though laughing at himself. “Suddenly I was just terrified. To be alone, you know? Like… anyone could come after me, anytime. So, after they took off this morning I… I just sat and waited. Too scared to do anything, even just to make tea. Didn’t read, didn’t turn on the telly. I knew someone was coming, so yeah. I just sat and waited. Thought you might be Jane, actually. But I was glad it was you.”

“Hmm,” Dawson wiped his mouth, still observing Paul in his relaxed but keenly observant way. “Jane will be here tomorrow, you know, for two nights. Then George and Ringo, for a night, then Brian, and then John.”

He watched as Paul ducked his head, his face flushing with embarrassment. “Although I expect John will be in-and-out, as he has been,” Dawson continued. “I’ll write it down for you, so you won’t forget,” he offered. “And you should know that the concierge has a list of who is permitted to see you, if that makes you feel a bit more secure.”

“It does. Thank you,” Paul whispered. “I only realized today how undone I still am. A bit scared you know? Unsettled. And…” He raised his eyes to the big man. “And, well… I… I am having trouble keeping track of things. Is it natural…” Blushing, his arms came round to each shoulder, and he held on tightly to himself.

“Is it natural to lose time the way I’ve been, to be forgetful? Half the time I can’t tell what day it is, and I’ll find whole wedges of time I can’t account for. Hours, I mean. Happened over and over while they were here with me.” His expression became anxious. “I’ve never been… it’s not me, to be this way, you know. I’m usually the one who has the schedule down in my head, for everyone else. But now…” his voice trailed off.

“Couldn’t be more natural, son,” Dawson reassured him warmly. “I’d call it unnatural if you were acting like your old self too soon. So unnatural, in fact, that I’d fear you were putting it on and headed for a breakdown.”

“Feels like I’m having one now, though,” Paul’s self-hug seemed to tighten. “I’m… all off.”

Dawson poured plain whiskey into his empty tea cup and gulped it down. “It’s what I said before, Paul. ‘Shell-shock’.”

“That’s a real thing?” Paul asked as he eyed the bottle and then shook his head, as though deciding against it. He watched Dawson pour more tea for him. “I thought that was just an expression.”

“It’s a real reaction to trauma, yes. Many men coming home from the great war – and then the _next_ one,” the detective noted in a wry voice, “they were stunned by the trauma of what they’d encountered in war. The fading out you describe, the lost hours. I think all soldiers, and not a few coppers, by the way, have experienced it to one degree or another. Imagine a cop showing up for a murder – something gruesome, Jack-the-Ripper like -- and then after a full day of it going home to the wife and children? You bet he’ll be distracted and find hours slipping away. The brain needs to process things as it can, when it can, you know. That’s all you’re doin’ right now, son. Letting your brain get you back up to speed.”

“I just…” Paul let out a sigh and gave Dawson a direct look. “I feel like I’m never going to get my self back. You know, my _self_ , me… while those men are still out there, while there’s this whole risk of photos coming out--”

Dawson grunted, shaking his head in agreement as he lit a cigarette and offered one to Paul. “On that head, now that we’ve eaten and had a drop, are you ready to hear about what we’ve found?”

Paul felt his heartrate shoot up, and his hands instantly began to tremble so badly he had to accept a light from Dawson. “You -- you’ve found them,” he stammered. “Tell me, tell me please.”

“Aye,” Dawson sighed, fetching his notepad from an inside pocket. He began flipping through the small book with his big hands, until he found the page he wanted, and then peered over at Paul, waiting for him to compose himself as he sipped a bit more tea.

“Do you, know the name Rupert Chalice at all, Paul?”

Paul frowned, then shrugged, shaking his head, not trusting his voice.

“Oh, wait,” Dawson turned back a page. “I should tell you first, that your shoes have been found.”

“Where--” Macca cleared his throat, barely able to form words. “Where were they?”

“I found them on the feet of a young car valet, employed by the hotel.” Dawson was keeping his tone purposely light, as though this part of the story could be amusing, “a young man who didn’t know enough not to wear them in the wet.”

“A car val-- … really?”

“Hmm, bit of a long story, but he came by them honestly enough – they’d been given to one of his fellows, meant to be tossed, but were left behind for whoever could fit them. Like Cinderella, you know.”

Paul buried his face in his hands, shaking his head before looking up. “That’s… very strange. To think of people tryin’ on me shoon like that. So, who is the new prince?”

“Well, this young man wasn’t so interested in the prince’s slippers once he learned they were part of a police investigation. Once I spoke to him, he put it together pretty quickly that they had something to do with the wrecked room they’d all been whispering about.” Dawson decided to forego telling Paul the lad’s own deductions about who the shoes belonged to, or his conjectures about how the famous “head injury” might have come about. He flipped the page.

“So, I know the drug affected your whole night’s memory a bit, but when you and John got to the hotel, it was, what, about six or seven in the evening? And you went directly to the concierge for your room key, yes? Do you remember that?”

Paul exhaled a plume. “Aye. We only arrived in time to change into our tuxes and head to the dinner. John hung back a bit by a corner, and I got the key. I remember that.”

“Do you remember the concierge at all, the young man behind the desk?”

“I don’t.” Paul looked bothered, as though his conscience was nipping at him. “And I’m not sure we can blame that on the drugs. When you travel as much as we do, you tend to stop lookin’ at faces. I’m not proud of that, but-”

“Perfectly understandable,” Dawson nodded. “But you did have a very brief conversation with him, do you recall that?” He gave him a minute to think and was unsurprised when Macca shook his head, ‘no’.

“Again, understandable. On its face, it wasn’t significant. He apologized that the better rooms had all been booked and you apparently shrugged and said,” Dawson looked directly at his page, quoting, “‘A room’s a room when it’s just for a night.’ You took the key off him, and that was the end of it.”

Paul seemed to be trying to catch the memory. “Yeah, I sort of remember… some little thing. But you know, it’s just the normal sort of exchange, aye? ‘Hello, how are you, key please, sure, the room will be fine, thank you’… just one of those stupid little conversations you have all day as you’re movin’ about.”

Dawson grunted out that _hmmm_ that had become so familiar to Paul. “Had you and John had words beforehand, on the way to the hotel? Any words that might have affected your mood?”

“No,” Paul actually managed a pained smile. “Aside from grousing that we didn’t want to be there in the first place, we were fine. I mean, maybe we weren’t in the greatest of moods, but I don’t think we were rude. Why, what’s so important about the concierge?”

“Well,” Dawson flipped the page again. “If you were not rude -- and I doubt you were, at least not deliberately so -- the young man did apparently feel slighted, because you had not remembered him, and he felt that in general you seemed rushed and dismissive toward him.”

“ _Remembered_ him? I’m sure I’ve never been in that hotel before in my life.”

‘Yes, as I said, this was, on its face, a completely inconsequential conversation. In fact, the first time I’d spoken to this fellow, he’d said nothing about your not recognizing him – only that he’d given you the key.” Dawson leaned forward, in full copper-mode, now. “My first impression of him was that he was a bit of a toady, you know. Overzealous, too quick to please. Never liked a brown-noser. But he seemed otherwise alright.” He knocked back the fiery contents of his teacup and breathed through the burn.

“I’ll confess, Paul that I’d believed myself to have been at a dead end. The shoes had obviously been taken as a souvenir by one of your attackers -- someone who then thought better of it and meant them for the waste bin. The night of the attack had been a busy one, with a nearly full house and too many fancy medals or big names about, and the staff had been too busy to notice much of anything. The local police were coming up with nothing, even the palace-” he bit that back. “Everyone was stalled.”

“So…what? How did you come up with this Rupert fellow, then? Is that the concierge? Is this someone I’d met before, then?”

Dawson smiled at him with genuine affection. He loved a man who could make connections. “I decided to go through all of the employee records looking for something, anything in the background of anyone on staff, that could have connected them to either the men gathered with you that night, or you or John, yourselves. And that’s where I found that Rupert Chalice had previously worked as a production assistant on _A Hard Day’s Night_ – he was a kind of ‘gopher’ on the set, sent to do whatever was requested, rather like a concierge.”

“A gopher,” Paul had narrowed his eyes. 

“Aye. Once I made that connection, I went back to ask him about it. He admitted he’d not only met you and John but had had some sort of personal engagement with you both. And that’s when he declared that you should have recognized him. Became pretty pipped as we discussed it… and eventually he betrayed his anger. His sense of personal insult.” Dawson looked closely at Paul. “Does that ring any bells for you, son?”

Macca uncharacteristically rolled his eyes with impatience. “John Dawson, do you have any idea how tedious it is on a film set, or how many people work on those crews? There’s a gopher for every big shot, to start with, and I talked to everyone just to keep from dying of boredom -- the script girls, the makeup people, the best boys. And they’re all nice folks, but--” A spark of memory seemed to come to him, and it showed in Macca’s eyes. “ _The Best Boy_ … I don’t remember if his name was Rupert, but [I do know John ran him ragged with his tongue one day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20644505),” he snorted, “hard to forget.”

“How’s this?” Dawson smiled.

“One of those days when we were waiting around for hours while they fiddled with lights and such and John was bored.” He smiled back at the detective. “You know John’s not at his best when he’s bored.”

“No,” came the understanding note.

“The idea of someone being called a “Best Boy” rankled him and he became quite merciless about it – you know, ‘did your mummy _tell_ you that you were the best boy? How did you come to be the best boy, who did you have to wank off to chosen as _best boy_ …’.”

Dawson threw back his head in appreciative laughter at Paul’s very accurate mimicry. “I can just see this. And the red faces of the poor lads he bothered…”

“Aye, he was a right terror that day,” Paul smiled a little at the memory. “I had to keep telling people not to listen – just to take it in stride. Anyway, he was in a mood, John was. After tormenting the Best Boy he bothered anyone else that came into his line of sight -- such as it were, without his glasses. In the end, even though it was just John’s doing, we _all_ got in trouble for making the crew feel disrespected and embarrassed. ‘Bad for morale’ Brian said, and he chided me for not doing a better job of controlling John, as though I were his mum!”

The younger man sounded slightly annoyed as he told it. “Next day Dick Lester put me in charge of keeping John away from everyone. Which, you know, _John loved_. It basically meant keeping him in the dressing room as much as possible.”

Dawson was amused enough to chuckle as Paul’s face turn bright pink and he began to gnaw thoughtfully on one finger.

“Still, though… No harm was meant.” Paul continued, growing serious. “So… but you’re sayin’ the concierge was one of those fellows, and he was upset that we didn’t recognize him? That’s not fair, is it? Put a lad from a film crew into a hotel uniform and how are we supposed to know him? If he’d been on the set of _Help!_ I bet I’d have managed! I’m not… I try to do right by people, you know?”

“Quite right, son, I believe you. In Chalice’s case, he was peeved to be forgotten, and angry at you, not Lennon. He’d already dismissed John for an ass, but you’d apparently defended him, or at least specifically told John not to insult workingmen, and… well, I suspect that whatever exchange there was between the two of you had been a big moment for him. To be noticed and defended by Paul McCartney? It meant enough to him that he was furious to realize it meant so little to you.”

Paul’s finger came down, his arms went up around his shoulders again. “What are you saying, John? That this… was he…”

Dawson tossed a serious and regretful look Paul’s way with a sigh, a man clearly not wanting to say what he must. He closed his notebook with deliberation and returned it to his jacket pocket.  
  
*********

"A concierge, particularly a self-interested one like this Chalice, can sometimes be something of a brown-noser and… sometimes… something of a pimp. They’ll not only procure theater tickets for their guests. They’ll procure people. At some point, he had been approached by two guests – men he believed were part of your gathering, although he could not say for sure because, again, it was such a full house. They’d passed him fifty pounds, with a request for…” Dawson shifted in his seat, his discomfort felt throughout his body.

“For what?” Paul asked, fearing the answer. “For _what_ , exactly?”

The detective’s eyes were direct, even as his face was lowered. “What they wanted, specifically, was ‘a pretty boy we can share and roughhouse with a bit…’”

Paul’s reaction to those words surprised him. Dawson had expected the younger man to fall apart a bit at such a raw idea – that he might even lose his stomach, which, the cop knew, was always delicate.

But Macca merely stared back at him for a moment, and then hunched over his place, lifting up the salt shaker and then placing it down, design forward. He did the same with the pepper, aligning them to each other with careful precision, even as his hand shook. Then he moved them and did it again. He kept doing that, over and over again, until the placements satisfied him. Finally, he spoke.

“So, then,” he cleared his throat as though to find it. “He _sold_ me to them? Like a piece of meat. And…an’ it was only two men? How can that be? I… I feel sure there were at least three.” His eyes seemed big as saucers, to Dawson, as he finally looked up, and they were dark with pain. “That seems like… I didn’t imagine it.”

“No, son, you didn’t.” The detective contemplated putting a hand out, to still Paul’s own movement, but he decided against it. The distraction of the shakers seemed to be helping Paul maintain his composure. Still, he reached across the table, laying a flat hand nearby, and held the lad’s gaze. “There was, eventually, a third man who’d been invited along, and…” Dawson took a breath. “And this Rupert Chalice, this concierge… he made his own participation part of the – the agreement.”

Paul stopped playing with the shakers, instead bringing his hands to his lap, first burying them between his thighs, and finally sitting on them. He stared down at the table.

“Four…” he breathed. He closed his eyes, his chin falling to his chest. “God. I’m so ashamed.”  
  
*********

Dawson rose from his chair, squatting on his hams, his hand going to Paul’s back, making small circles there, to counter his distress. “You’ve nothing to feel shame for, my lad.”

“I was bought and sold. Like… a thing. And four men had me…” Suddenly the room felt too bright. The room was spinning. Paul squeezed his eyes tightly. “The whole world is wrong,” he murmured.

He felt his chair being pushed back, and Dawson was kneeling before him, bringing Paul’s head down between his legs with a surprising tenderness given his huge, rough hands. “You’ll not faint, son. You’re stronger than you know. Just breathe, now.”

“Does John know?” The question sounded forced out, as though Paul had no air left. “And my Da?”

Dawson nodded, though Paul couldn’t see him. “John knows. I told him three nights ago, when we arrested Chalice.”

Paul’s head came up, but he was looking away. “Three nights? He – he was here two nights ago, stopped in… he never said a word.” Paul was trying to catch the memory of John’s visit. Had it been two nights ago, or four? He wasn’t sure now. Lennon hadn’t stayed long. He’d said something quietly to Jim McCartney, given Paul a long hug and said he’d be back in a few days.

“He must have come to… tell my Da,” Paul reasoned.

“Yes,” Dawson agreed.

“Does… please… does my Da know it was four…” The question trailed off.

“I don’t believe John told him the details, no, son. I’d asked him to keep it simple, to just say an arrest had been made, that we hoped more would come. Just, you know, to let your father know progress was being made.”

“He didn’t tell me. John didn’t tell _me!_ ” Paul sounded betrayed. "About the arrest. Why…”

“Paul, my boy… That was me,” the detective said in a quiet voice, meant to soothe. “I had hoped that by the time it was my turn to stay –” he quickly corrected himself, “my chance to _visit with you_ , I’d have more to tell. I’d been hoping to be able to say we had all four in custody. Unfortunately, that is not so. Not yet, anyway.”

Paul was biting down on his lower lip, so hard Dawson feared he’d bite right through. His hand went back to the lad’s back, stroking between his shoulders. “We still hope to learn who the other men were. The pala—the police are collecting photos of all the men at the dinner – but that’s taking some little time. Hopefully Chalice will co-operate and help us identify the others.”

“All this..." Paul murmured, "all this... filth, this destruction of _me_ , my whole self... and all because a man felt slighted I didn't remember him? God, help me." His kept his eyes closed, as though he was revisiting something. “Chalice... _Chalice_ … Is that—was he the ‘Cholly’ I remember hearing?”

“Cholly, yes,” Dawson confirmed regretfully. “He’s called that.”

“So, not a Charles…” Paul appeared to still be rummaging within what memories he’d retrieved from that awful night. He opened his eyes, suddenly, pulling away from Dawson’s touch, grabbing at his hand. “John…it was him. He’s the one…”

“The one, what,” the detective frowned.

“It was _him_. The ‘workingman’ thing. I remember! H-he held up the comb and said something – ‘not the comb of a workingman’ he’d said. Something like that. He was sneering, mocking me. And then h-h-he…he…”

The sound that came from Paul nearly tore the copper’s heart in two. It was a keen that seemed to arise from the deepest part of the young man, a dark and feral sound, full of torment. There were no tears, only a sound of someone trying to escape from something and being unable to. Dawson pulled Paul into his arms, letting the lad bury his head into his neck as the sound went on and on, Macca’s arms clinging to the huge man as though for protection.

“It’s alright, my boy,” Dawson repeated, holding on and stroking Paul’s hair, finally planting his lips there as his own eyes began to fill with unfamiliar, unwelcome tears. “It’s alright… it’s alright, my little lad. I’ve got you. I've got you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fiction refereced about the day John terrorized various crew members of _A Hard Day's Night_ can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20644505), although Cholly is not mentioned.


	26. Father, Lover, Brother, Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Dawson drags an unwilling Paul out into the cold night, delivering him to a quiet pub. As Paul decides to drink himself silly with Guinness, Dawson tries, without real success, to assuage some of Paul's great concerns, particularly as to whether he will ever feel safe enough to perform again. And then, teased into it by Paul, the big cop finally explains himself to Paul, sharing a secret that, in 1965, could still ruin him. They emerge from the pub as deeper friends, and Paul has claimed a new, if ghostly, brother. 
> 
> And then, a letter arrives.

_Daddy…_

The thought ran through his head – it came unbidden, and fled without a trace.

And then, _John…_

“I’ve got you, my lad,” Dawson had whispered, and Paul had heard the odd, unexpected tenderness there. Had felt the man’s lips touch down on his head as he ran a soothing hand through his hair. 

Like a parent, yes. But also like a lover, he thought.

He breathed in deeply, catching an unfamiliar scent that was neither his father’s lavender nor John Lennon’s earthy citrus. It was the scent of John Dawson, a new one – tobacco and paper and rain -- and suddenly Paul McCartney felt like his life was full of too many men, all of whom brought tremendous impact, for good and for ill, brought freedom even as they stifled. His father and John. George and Ritchie. Ivy, Neil, and Mal and George Martin.

And now John Dawson.

And those other men. Those _four_ \-- those particular four, who brought only ill, and no good. Who had befouled him, and hurt him.

And ruined him for love, forever and forever and for all.

And nearly killed him.

Four men who would be with him so closely, so intrinsically, for the rest of his life, no matter how he might want to rip them out. toss them away. They were seared into his skin and psyche, soul and tissue alike, like a chronic illness, like a disease that can only be fought, but never defeated.

 _Bay rum_. The scent of bay rum had been all around him at one point, that night. Paul’s gorge rose to recall an whirling aroma of sweat and bay rum and sex and blood.

His own gory blood.

Had ‘Cholly’, this Rupert, worn bay rum?

His head hurt. He wondered if he could just sleep here, in John Dawson’s arms, on John Dawson’s shoulder. _I’ve got you, my lad…_

What had he called him? His ‘ _little lad_ ’, then? That was… odd. But not bad. Sweet, actually. Big, safe arms. So big, so strong that he knew he could lean on them, into them, without wearing him down. _If I could just sleep forever. Never wake up. Or wake up and find it’s all a long nightmare, and I’m with John, my John…_

 _Stupid, that_ , Paul tried to collect himself, gather his wits about him. _Pull yourself together, lad_ , he chided himself. _Can’t sleep on a man in the kitchen._

Dawson’s huge hand on his hair. The low murmurings in his ear. Didn’t matter the words. He felt safe, loved. _Let me sleep, right now, just go away…_

The phone rang, and that settled the issue. Dawson released his grip on Paul, settling him back on his chair, and went into the other room to answer it. Paul could hear the copper’s deep voice speaking quietly but couldn’t make out any words beyond, “yes” and “I will tell him.”

He heard the hang up. Heard Dawson’s surprisingly light step head his way, and he ducked, holding his unsurprisingly heavy head in his hands, only daring to look up when he sensed the cop poised in the doorway, filling it with his size, and just staring at Paul, until he looked up.

“Your da,” Dawson informed him, noting that Paul was peering at him from between his fingers. “Wanted to let you know they were safely home, and that he’d come back down to you in an instant if you needed him.”

Paul nodded, through his hands. “Aye.”

“Also, he wants to know if you’d decided about spending Christmas up with them.”

The younger man’s position remained unchanged, although he slowly shook his head, ‘no’. “Too soon to know, I told him. He’s goin’ to nag me now, watch. Callin’ every day and askin’ ‘Will you be comin’ to us, then?’”. Paul’s voice exactly sounded his father’s anxious notes. “T’is not even December yet,” he complained.

“Nearly enough, though” Dawson shrugged, smiling at how young Paul suddenly sounded, and how like every beleaguered son of an over-attentive parent, throughout the ages.

They remained like that for a moment, Paul calmer, distracted by his thoughts; John Dawson content to study him until the lad sighed hugely, and – still peering through his fingers, as though they offered some protection – asked him a question.

“You’re not fallin’ in love with me, are you, John Dawson?”

The question was so unexpected, and delivered in a tone of such _bone-weary dread_ , that Dawson’s eyes bulged, first in amazement, then in amusement. The room nearly shook at the force of his laughter.

“Jesus Christ,” he boomed, nearly choking in his merriment. “If I were, lad, I’d be crushed, now! All defeated and emasculated by the way you’ve asked it.” He slapped one thigh as he nearly bent over, particularly after seeing Paul’s flushed embarrassment. “I’ve had murderers ask me how a noose was made and showing less dismay.” He hooted again.

Paul finally smiled a little, despite himself. “Alright, alright, a stupid question. Sorry.”

“I don’t really think I’m your type, either, boy,” Dawson was bringing himself down to delighted chuckles. “And Lennon would have my nuts in any case.”

“Alright, alright,” Paul repeated, finally standing and picking up the plates from dinner. “I just… nuthin’.” He shrugged. “I don’t know why I asked you that.”

“I do,” the cop joined him at the sink, still smiling and nudging Paul aside with one shoulder as he began to rinse the plates. “My _little_ lad…”

“Stop that,” Paul frowned as Dawson continued to heave through his amusement.

“Yer ‘ _not_ fallin’ in love with me, are ya’?” The big man mimicked. “And himself so dreary-looking! As if it would mean Armageddon itself, if I were! Don’t know when I’ve laughed so well.” He looked at Paul, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Do that many people fall for you, then?”

“God, I’m an ass,” Macca blushed. “And yes. People are always thinkin’ they’re in love with me. Birds, men. Old men. They don’t know me, but they all say they love me.”

Dawson leaned his head toward Paul, as though telling a secret. “Well, that’s the difference, Paulie, dear. I _do_ know you. And I like you. Don’t get me wrong, lad, you’re a one – smart and kind, you are, and I like you fine, all-in-all. But in love with you? Not a chance.” He chuckled yet again. “Even if you are _just_ my type.”

“Aw, cut it,” Paul began, picking up a dishtowel. He did a double take. “Wait, _what_?”

The big man finished rinsing a dish and placed it down, shaking water from his hands and then taking the towel from Paul, who was staring, motionless. He dried his hands and then took Paul by the shoulders, giving him a sound kiss on the forehead, and laughing again. “C’mon, son, let’s go for a walk. I’ve more to say to you tonight, and the cold air will help brace you.”

“It’s freezin’ out there,” Paul objected, frowning as he rubbed his forehead, half in puzzlement, half because the kiss was so unexpected.

“Aye, like I said. It’ll brace you.”

***

“Christ! It’s a witch’s tit night,” Paul said, nearly strangling on his first gulp of the clean, brisk air. He pulled his collar up and buried his hands in his pockets.

“No witch worth her spells would show her tits on a night like this,” Dawson answered, noting that for all their difference in height, Paul’s long legs kept up easily with the copper’s broad, fast gait.

“And yet you’ve dragged me out.”

Dawson tossed his head leftward. “There’s a fine, quite pub a few blocks over. Just what you’d like, I think. An older, monied crowd. Couples talking and leavin’ each other to themselves. We’ll head thataway and hope there’s a booth not too far from the fire.”

“Oh, good,” Paul snarked as he felt a quick uptick in his anxiety. “People. Just want I didn’t want to see.”

“It’ll do you good. And don’t worry, boyo, they’re unlikely to care about you, either. You might suddenly wonder why no one is fallin’ all over you, mewling --”

“Don’t say it--”

“I looove you Paulie-waulie,” the cop went into an awful falsetto, “I loooove you.”

“Shurrup, cop!” Macca could stop a smile as he rolled his eyes. “I said I was sorry.”

“Oh, you’re not sorry enough yet, lad… I can’t wait to tell John. Or Jane!” With a swat to the younger man’s shoulder, Dawson took off, Paul chasing after him awkwardly with a threatening fist. 

***

“I’ve not run like that in a long time,” Paul said, still catching his breath as they slid into a booth. “And not at all since…” His voice dropped off, and he held his hands up to the small candle at their table.

“Since the surgery,” John Dawson finished.

Paul nodded, staring at the flame.

“How’d it feel?”

The lad looked up. “Alright. Had been afraid, you know. Thought if I ran or something I’d feel pulled, but it was alright.”

“You should probably walk more, get to know your body again.”

A shrug. “Yeah, maybe. Maybe so.”

Paul had grabbed Dawson’s tweed cap from his head as they’d entered the pub which was, as the detective had promised, a darkly quiet, low-key affair, and now he wore it below his easily-distinguished brows. He tugged it even lower as a server approached.

“Gents, what will you have on this chilly night, then?”

“Guinness,” Paul said quickly, his voice unnaturally low.

“Aye, splendid,” Dawson agreed, after a glance. “I’d been inclined to whiskey, but aye. A Guinness here, too, please.” 

“Surprising choice,” he said when they were again alone.

“I love a Guinness,” Paul admitted almost shyly. “Rarely have one, but it goes down easy and makes me feel weirdly healthy.”

“Well, they do say it’s good for you…”

“ _They_ say lots of things,” the younger man rolled his eyes. “Almost nothing is real, though.”

“Or all too real, yeah?” Dawson’s gaze was direct.

Paul looked away. “Aye. Or all too.”

The beers were laid before them, a bowl of pretzels with them, and John Dawson raised a glass with a serious look. “To you, Paul. Your health.”

Macca raised his own glass in salute. “From your lips to God’s own ears, and I thank you.” He drank half the glass down in one go, pounding it on the table with a contented “Ahh, that’s the stuff,” and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Dawson betrayed a small smile, but stifled a laugh.

“What?” Paul challenged with a frown.

“Nothing. It’s just… such an Irish way you have about you, sometimes.”

“Yeah, John says that to me all the time, you know. ‘Christ, Macca, it’s like you’re comin’ in straight off the bogs, sometimes’…”

“You mimic him amazingly well.”

“Sure, and I would, though, wouldn’t I?” Paul’s eyes cast off into the distance a bit. “The largest presence in my life, he is.”

“He’s certainly been all for you, since I’ve known him.”

“Aye…I know. Even with all of our futures now so uncertain.”

“Why uncertain, then?”

Paul shifted. “Right now…I don’t know how I’ll feel in a few months, you know, but right now… John, I don’t see myself having the – the way of being… being able to manage it all as I have. Never liked uninvited touching and I know I can never be grabbed at like that, again. Won’t be able to tolerate it. Risks me turning about and flattening some kid, all on instinct.” He noted Dawson’s intent nod. Surely the feeling was understandable.

“Can’t see myself on a stage ever again, either,” he continued. “Always wonderin’. If we never find these men, I’ll always feel like they’re right there, right in the hallway, outside the dressing room. Right at the stage’s end, laughin’ at me. Planning to come for me again. That… that ‘next time’, you know. I can’t shake that. It sounds too much like a promise instead of a threat.”

Dawson’s eyes were sympathetic. “And I suppose you’re still worried about the photographs finding their way out.”

Paul gave him a dark look and finished the rest of his beer, again in one go, motioning the server over and handing him his glass. “I’ll do another, please.”

“Yes,” he nearly spat as he turned back to Dawson. “ _Yes_. Of course I’m worried. If those get out it’s the end. For all of us. Unless…” He almost dared not to hope, “you have them, the negatives?”

“No,” the detective answered crisply. “But I think you needn’t worry.” He took a cigarette from his pocket, offering one to Paul, who accepted, and lit both sticks. When he spoke again, his voice was lowered as he leaned in. “When you were in hospital, another envelope came. Another picture and a note, a dropoff assignment to ransom the negatives.”

“Another picture,” Paul breathed. “What was it?”

Dawson shook his head. “Nothing you want to hear about, son. All you need to know is that a very highly placed team was on it, but the thing never went off. Chalice confessed to me later than he’d lost his nerve after spotting all the security in the hospital, and seeing police were still in and out of the hotel.

“He has them, then?”

“ _Had_. Apparently it was he who’d brought the camera – everyone had a turn with it.”

“Like they had a turn with me,” Paul whispered, clamming up as his second Guinness arrived.

“You have to stop that, lad,” Dawson said quietly a bit later. “I know it’s all very fresh, but you’ll keep ripping over your scabs and never get past--”

“Haven’t you told me, John, often and often, that I’ve got to let the memories come?”

“Aye, but you needn’t invite them in, lad.” He nodded toward the Guinness. “Drink that. You’ll feel better.”

“So, he still has the photos?” Paul could be bitingly direct when he wanted to be, even as he drank.

“I don’t believe so,” Dawson answered. “When I questioned him he seemed terrified to discuss the photos. I think it suddenly dawned on him that they’d further incriminate him when he was already in deep trouble. On charges of extortion, when he was already facing charges of rape, criminal assault, possession and dispensing of illegal drugs, unlawful imprisonment of another. Production of pornography with intent to profit.” He shrugged. “That’s not really a charge, but he didn’t know that. He said that when he decided against risking the drop off, he went home and burned the negatives, no longer wanted any part of that.”

Paul’s eyes were dark and hard. “And you believe him, do you?”

The older man did some damage to his own beer, dabbing at his foamy lips with a napkin. “In fact, Paul, I do. Chalice is a coward at heart. He’d never have thought to seek out any sort of revenge against you if he’d not already been approached to find someone to exploit. And I don’t believe he’d have been part of that scene in the room if the men who’d initially approached him hadn’t invited along a third. In his mind, that negated the initial deal. He demanded another twenty-five quid, or his own… well, participation. And that’s how that happened.”

Paul shook his head in disbelief at the sordidness of it all. “Another twenty-five quid,” he marveled. “For another twenty-five quid, I’d perhaps never…” _Never had a cock shoved down my throat, never had a comb handle stirred ‘round my arse_ … he stopped those awful words from coming, unwilling to subject himself or his company to them.

“Never nearly died. Instead, the fellas got a bargain, didn’t they? As many turns as they could manage with a pretty boy, and then a floorshow with a comb, to boot. It would be pathetic if it were not so… so fucking wicked.”

He removed Dawson’s hat from his head, scratching at his hair, and then replaced it. “What’s that someone said a couple years ago about the ‘banality of evil’?”

“You’ll have no argument from me on that front, son.” Dawson agreed.

“We should have thought of it, though,” Paul, feeling suddenly loquacious with the drink, considered. “Who else would have known what room was available, on just that floor, aye? And near the stairs, yet? Who but a concierge?”

He looked up. “Why hadn’t we thought of that? In hindsight it’s so obvious. Even the timing… it all started at right about the end of his shift!”

Once again Dawson found himself marveling at Paul’s natural deductive reasoning skills. He raised his glass in a second salute. “If you ever leave music, son, you should consider joining Scotland Yard.”

“It might yet happen,” Paul said miserably. “You can’t tell me for certain that those negatives are gone, can you?”

“No,” the copper admitted. “I can’t guarantee it. I can only tell you a search of his rooms didn’t turn them up. Used his loo for a blackroom and they did find a bit of pornographic material – and he’ll be charged on that, too, be sure – but no negatives or prints of you. I can only go on my gut, my trained instincts, but I do believe that pissant coward lost his nerve. I do think he destroyed them. But no. I can’t guarantee it.”

“Have you told John that?”

“Yes,” Dawson admitted. “John knows everything.”

Paul’s head knocked against the wall of their booth, as slouched and sighed, as though resigned to the worst. “Knows everything.” He eyed the man across the table. “No wonder he’s the last to come – last to stay with me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Paul.” Dawson finished his beer, motioning over the server. “Another for me, and you might as well bring his third along while you’re at it,” he smiled at the young man.

“Aye, sir, right away.” 

Paul watched Dawson’s eyes follow as the fellow walked away and shook his head again. _Should have figured that one out, too_ , he told himself. _Some copper you’d make_.

“Understand something,” the cop was saying to him, leaning in and speaking softly. “John’s last on the list because he means to spend the greatest amount of time with you. As long as you need.”

“Really?” Paul hoped he didn’t sound pitiable.

“I do believe, son, that if he weren’t married to Cynthia, if he didn’t have that lovely child of theirs, you’d never be rid of him, Paul.” He sat back, making room for the delivery of two more beers. “He’d be at your side forever.”

Paul drank down his second glass, and moved it aside to sip at the third. A little smile played under his foam mustache, until Dawson stared him into wiping it away. “He would, I know.”

“He loves you very much, Paul. More, even, I think, than the Beatles, the band, the… all of it. I don’t think, in his mind, there would be an instant’s hesitation for _you_ if he’s ever forced to choose.”

“Maybe,” Paul gulped. He took another long swig at his beer. The Guinness was kicking in, and he suddenly felt relaxed and even a bit playful, just a little. Enough to dare to tease John Dawson. “So, big cop… What do you think of that lad keeps bringing us our beers? A bit long and lean, like me, yeah? Whadye’ say before… _just yer type_ , then?”

The older man shook his head and rolled his eyes, ready for the young man’s needle. “Never meant to betray myself like that.”

“You kissed me head.”

“I did.”

“You called me your ‘little lad’.”

“I did,” Dawson admitted. “But I plead a case of extreme empathy.” He leaned back, lighting another cigarette, a sense of sadness all around him. “You’d be astonished to know how many times you’ve broken my heart in these few weeks we’ve known each other, son.”

“Just because I’m your type,” Paul asked, still smiling but suddenly quite certain that there was more to it than that.

“Sure, if you like,” the older man folded his arms across his chest.

“What was his name, then, John,” came the soft question.

Dawson smoked, a faraway look in his eye. “Edward, since you’ve guessed. I called him Ned." _My Neddy_.

“You loved him.” Paul stated the fact of it.

“I did.” There was no point in denying it. “I still do.” The detective sighed hugely. “There will never be anyone else for me, like Ned.”

“Where is he now,” the question came very gently, because Paul suspected he already knew the answer.

Dawson hesitated to respond. All through this situation – this dreadful rape and sickness endured by Paul McCartney -- Ned had been hanging in John Dawson’s awareness, like a specter peering over his shoulder, listening in, watching what the retired cop would do – how he would handle the abused victim, waiting for him to make a mistake.

“It’s been a long time,” came the answer. “Nearly twenty years.” He looked up at Paul. “I’ve never spoken of Ned to anyone.”

“Will you tell me,” Paul leaned forward. “I’d like to know, John.”

When no answer was forthcoming, he tried again. “Was he like me?”

“A little,” Dawson admitted. “More in your person, your… leanness. Swimmer’s muscles, like yours, the long legs. Not so much in manner, though. Oh, I mean, he was very mannerly, as are you, smart and dark and pretty, like you. A striking profile, like you, too. He wore glasses, though, with fine wires. But…” His words faded a bit, as a memory seemed to intrude, and then the big man shook himself back to it. “Neddy was a little high strung,” he admitted. “Bit of a sensitive plant, if you will. You, Mr. McCartney, have a variety of ways about you. You can often be very masculine, very hard and intractable. I saw that the first day we met, before illness broke you down a bit. But you can be soft, too. You’ve shown great confidence, particularly on stage. Neddy…”

The older man’s face softened with a memory. “Neddy … well, he was only soft. Soft in speech, soft in how he lived and moved. Always preferred to be in the background, rather than at the fore. The kindest man I ever knew.”

Paul listened, unwilling to intrude as Dawson descended into a place of warm memory colored by deep regret. Ned had been a few years younger than Dawson, who was still a fairly young police officer himself.

“He had a steel trap of a mind, not unlike yours, but even more disciplined,” the story unrolled, “and he was a police archivist, which is a fancy way of saying he’d go round, from district to district, examining case files, making sure evidences were properly marked and preserved, paperwork all straight. Basically making a continual audit of police business, as a way to insure that a case was solid – all our i’s dotted and t’s crossed, so nothing would blow up in our faces once a thing went to trial. And he was brilliant at it,” Dawson added, with obvious pride. “Whatever the men had to say about him in jest – you know how it goes, all the ugly labels – if he said a thing needed review, it was reviewed. If he had questions of anyone, they were swiftly and respectfully answered.”

Paul nodded appreciatively. Having noted John Dawson’s own value of respect, he understood what it meant for the detective to see his lover so esteemed. “That’s how you met him,” he asked. “On the job?”

“Aye. It’s a difficult thing, you know, to be a copper and bein’ so… other-directed, if you will. All the rough language, the ways one has to talk to fit in. The ways one has to act in order to stay above suspicion. I would see women, you know. Had to.” He looked up sharply at Paul, a wry smile playing at his lips. “Almost got engaged, once, and thank God Gillian fell for someone else before I bought a ring.”

“Anyway,” he continued, “When Neddy would visit our precinct, he and I would occasionally share a meal after my shift. Then we started taking walks together, just _talking_ you know. He was an interesting, sweet man, and he knew so much – about weather and flowers and music. Even politics… he was just never boring, you know? And… he never treated me like I was just another dumb, working-class cop, barely more evolved than an ape. He… I felt like I was a better man when I was with him. Wanted to be one, too.”

He looked up, giving Paul his direct gaze. “Eventually, we became lovers. Whenever he was in our district, he was with me – lived with me, in my flat. Every few weeks, for two or three days, life would be wonderful. Complete. Fully lit. The realest, most authentic days of my life were the ones Ned and I shared, there.”

Paul nodded in complete understanding. This he could identify with, and deeply. It described what had always been the best part of touring with John Lennon -- living together, sharing rooms and beds. Waking up together, cuddled and secure; going to sleep together, the same way. Touring could be hell, for all of them. But those mad ‘death marches’ from city to city, continent to continent – they were also the source of all their sweetest days together, and Paul knew it.

“How long,” he wondered aloud. “How long did it last?”

“Four years, and a bit,” Dawson answered. “Four very beautiful years.” He blew out a plume of smoke and shrugged a shoulder, trying to seem casual, although his eyes betrayed the heaviness of his heart. “And then, one night, Ned was over at the lower East End – rough trade, you know. He’d worked late – I always told him not to do that, to lay off at a reasonable hour, when the streets were still crowded. But he’d lose himself in those files sometimes, and apparently that night, he’d found something fascinating to hold him there til nearly midnight. As he was walking back to his lodgings… well, I don’t know that you care to hear the rest, lad.”

Paul licked his lips, finding a cigarette of his own to suck on. “Please, tell me, though, John. You can tell me.”

Dawson lowered his eyes. “Two men. They’d jumped him and pulled him into an alleyway and… well. They brutalized him. Not only in the one way. I mean, aye, they raped him. But they beat him, as well, with their fists and their boots. They stomped him.” _[My poor, wounded boy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/53508520)_ , he left unsaid, just as he had back then.

He could hear Paul’s gasp. “Christ, John Dawson, I’m sorry," he offered with a gulp. "[Sorrier than you know](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/46817458#workskin). Poor Neddy.” 

“Aye," Dawson nodded, running his fingertip through the wetness all around his glass. "They left him there, broken like that. Depraved bastards. Neddy wasn’t discovered until the next morning and by then, lyin' helpless in the cold amid the fog and the filth, and the puddles and the mud and the rats. Infection had already started where he'd been..." He stopped himself, unwilling to use the words, 'ripped' and 'torn' to a boy you'd so recently lived through it. His eyes, blue as gaslights and glassy with obvious pain, went to Paul's in sympathy. "Well you know, don't you, love? And too, he’d been bleeding internally for some hours. Neddy was not going to live. And I'd failed him.”

When he looked up, the retired copper could see the questions in Paul’s expression. “Yes, I failed him, and so badly.” He took a breath. “So badly that I couldn’t bear to fail you, too. I saw so much of him in you -- in what you’d gone through.”

“You never failed me, you must know that,” Paul said, his eyes glistening. “I’m sure you didn’t fail Ned, either.”

“I did though,” Dawson insisted, his voice a little stronger and more insistent than was wise in that place. "I pestered you about a doctor. I should have dragged you there." He waited a moment, heaving a sigh and giving a great gulp before speaking again, in a much lowered voice. “When he was found, he asked for me. Specifically asked for me, and the message was sent. And I rushed to him, of course I did, but… I pretended not to know _why_ he wanted me. I made excuses – that he’d given me his family contacts, that I had his monies. And I went to him and…”

The man’s regret was almost palpable, now. “But I never kissed him. I took his hand as he lay dying, but I never told him I loved him, then. When he needed to hear it. I should have done it, just kissed him and said the words. There were so many people about, you know – all those eyes and long noses. And there was his reputation to think of. And mine. And I was too young, too stupid to say to hell with all that, and be true to Ned. True to us, and all we had been to each other.”

He looked up again at Paul. “Your John has been twice and again more courageous than I in that regard. With everything he has to lose, he all but declared himself for you to everyone while you were sick. Again and again, even with his wife nearby.”

Paul nodded his head, quietly, aware that he still did not know all of what happened in the time between his first hemorrhage and finally breaking through the fever. He would need to ask George and Ritchie, when they came to stay with him.

“I’m ashamed of all I did not do. Although…there was another copper there, used to working the East End. He said… he dared to ask Neddy if he’d ‘asked for it’. You know, if he’d 'led the men on'! As though the poor boy weren't already stupidly blaming himself.”

“Foul fucker,” Paul swore. “What did you do?”

“Nothing in the moment, nothing while Ned was dying. But afterwards… I belted him around and then nearly drowned him in a puddle of mud. Got a short suspension for that.”

“Good for you, John.” Paul said, sincerely.

“Aye. I suppose. But there was no satisfaction in it. My Neddy was gone to me. And… all these years, I’ve felt such remorse for all I didn’t do. You know, that whole ‘sins of omission’ thing. ‘For what I have done; for what I have failed to do…’” He tamped down his cigarette with a heavy hand, driving the filter into the ashtray.

“And then… when you landed in my path -- so smart, so brave, so like Ned. I felt like… to fail you would have been failing him twice.”

Dawson’s voice broke and his head went down into one hand as he seemed to collapse in on himself. Paul reached across the table, taking the man’s other hand into both of his own. “John, be told, now. You… you didn’t just save my life when I started bleedin’ out that day. You… you kept me from believing all the words that were running through me head, and my heart– that I’d done something wrong, or brought it all on myself. You made me believe I could be stronger than I felt. You…”

He realized he was squeezing Dawson’s hand too hard, and backed off, stroking it between his own. “God, John. You said all the right words and you made me feel safe in those first days. And if you were doing that for the sake of your love, for the sake of your Ned, then… well, you served us both. And _well_. Know that, will you,” he insisted. “I wish… Obviously, I wish none of this had ever happened, not to me, and not to him. But I thank you for telling me this, sharing this with me. John,” he waited until Dawson finally looked at him, both of them holding back tears that had no place in this quiet, refined, very public place.

“If these terrible things had to happen, somehow” Paul finished. “Then I’m proud to have been Ned’s proxy. Gives all the sufferin’ a bit of meaning beyond my own self, doen't it? And I will never forget what you have done for me. And for John, and my father. And for Brian, and all of us.”

He swallowed hugely and gave Dawson’s hand one more squeeze before letting go. “And for Ned, for him, too. I feel like... we could be brothers, almost.”

“Paul…” the big man’s voice failed him as he found himself too near to tears. He shook his head, unable to go on.

Macca ducked his head, trying to catch his eye and lighten the mood. “Hey, now, copper,” he said gently, his lips upturned. “You’re not gonna get all soft on me, are you? You’re not gonna want to kiss me again, eh?”

Dawson let out a wet, snotty laugh as he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped at his nose. “No. And I’m not fallin’ in love with you, either, you little narcissist, as we’ve already established.”

Paul smiled warmly at him, finishing up his beer.

“You know what my first thought was about you?” The detective asked.

“Hmm? What, was it, then?”

“I thought you were commanding, bossy thing. But like a prince. My first thought was that you had the prince’s way about you; a steely spine and a knowledge of yourself that most of us do not possess. That you knew who and what you were, and were comfortable in your own skin.”

Dawson finished up his own drink, and started shrugging into his overcoat. “I wasn’t wrong. And you’ll be fully back to yourself, in time, son. I know it, as I know you.”

Twenty minutes later, both shivering off the cold as entered Paul’s flat, Dawson hung the younger man’s jacket on the coat rack and then took off his own, patting down his pockets for his cigarettes. He found something else, a small packet of letters, which he brought into Paul, who was washing his hands in the kitchen.

“I’m very sorry, Paul. When I took your da to the train today, he’d asked me to give these to you, and I forgot.”

“I hadn’t realized it was you took him and Mike there,” Paul said, drying his hands and reaching for the bundle. "Thought they'd called a cab."

“Oh, we have a whole busy network operating all around you that you’ve no idea about,” Dawson teased. “Also, you know, the old gentleman stayed with me while you were ill so, we’re actually friends, now.”

“I’m glad to know it,” Macca was distractedly looking at each envelope as he spoke. “Why didn’t he give these to me, though, himself?”

“He just forgot, I think,” Dawson shrugged. “Just as I nearly did, too. I’m off to bed, Paul,” he finished. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, John. And John!” He called after him.

John Dawson backed up, peeking back into the kitchen. “Aye, lad?”

“Thank you, again. For everything, _all of it_.” Meaning the reassurances about Cholly’s photos. Meaning the intimate knowledge of Ned, Dawson’s great secret. Meaning a new, unexpected friendship. “And yeah, I liked that pub.”

The cop waved him off with a wink and disappeared into the guest room, while Paul sat at the kitchen table, setting the rest of the notes aside to focus on one envelope in particular – a letter lightly bearing a spicy scent of carnation, and featuring a French postmark and a lovely, feminine, convent-trained hand that he’d have recognized anywhere.


	27. Jackrabbit and the French Enigma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul, still dealing with PTSD and adjusting to the "new normal" of life after a gang-rape, is given a letter from someone he'd not spoken to in years, and is thrown into a haze of memories, of Hamburg, and and the Exi's and one particular Sunday afternoon, unlike any other in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this particular chapter doesn't "advance" the story much, but it's necessary background, and some of it is fun, so I hope you enjoy it. Call it a one-chapter respite from all the suffering -- Paul's and John's and Dawson's -- which will resume soon enough!

There was a note from his little step-sister, Ruth, a sweetly childish message hoping that he might feel better, each word individually surrounded by hearts, the whole message enclosed in one giant heart and the words “I love you” scattered throughout the page.

 _Hard not to smile while looking at that_. He decided he’d hang it up somewhere, because smiles were not feeling especially natural, just yet.

A note, then, from his stepmother, wishing him well and inviting him to stay in Wirral with the family, and specifically through Christmas. _Uh-uh. Like I told Dawson, not being roped into that too early_. Increasingly a Christmas alone with himself was all that sounded appealing to Paul. No questions to answer, no need to put on a false cheer when he felt numb, felt nothing but fear.

No need to be social when what he craved was isolation, even though he cringed when he had it.

Finally, after pouring out a scotch for himself, he sat down and faced the letter he’d been avoiding. Although why he should, he wasn’t even sure. The sender had always been such a complete sweetheart to him, even when things were at their toughest. He was sure there were only good things in the envelope – kind words and perhaps a photo of two by the feel of it.

With a sigh, he delicately slit the thing open, pulling out two creamy sheets of perfectly folded paper.

 _Oh, Sophie… always so careful and precise. Except with me. You weren’t careful with me_. _You should have been._

He had met her in Hamburg, during the band’s first residency there, when the young Germans, Astrid and Klaus and Jürgen – the sophisticated, bohemian artists who had taken such a shine to Stu Sutcliffe (and by extension, John Lennon) -- began to loom large in the Beatle’s small world. The little group were always dressed in black and relentlessly cool, so completely hip and attuned to whatever zeitgeist was coming down the tracks that they seemed forever on the forefront of any new thought. They were all artistic in one way or another and rather pretentiously “broody”; they thought of themselves as intellectuals -- existential philosophers, too laid back, too knowing, too dosed with appropriate measures of doubt and cynicism to ever permit themselves to become truly excited about anything but ideas.

John, who craved being part of anything remotely rebellious and loved being in the mix, had eventually nicknamed them, in a thoroughly Liverpudlian way, as the “Exi’s” and for a little while in Hamburg, Paul found himself once more pushed to the peripheries – as he had been when John entered art college and got involved with Stu and Cynthia, both older than himself (and therefore ‘much’ older than Paul).

He and George were mostly tolerated by the Exi’s, since they were part of the band – and the Exi’s liked the Beatles, because they were raw and undisciplined, and quite unlike any other band on the Reeperbahn -- but they often mocked the two of them as being “young and naïve” and “too impressionable.”

Paul, especially, was problematic for the Exi’s, not only because he was near-obsessive about Stu’s lack of musicianship (and, if he was being honest, about John’s over-attention to Stu) but also because he attacked his music too earnestly, with no sense of proportionate irony; he would get genuinely excited while on stage, and had no guile about it, no edge or attitude that could put a distance between him and the audience, and that made Paul a bit uncool, a bit lame in their regard. He liked the praise. He liked the applause. He liked being liked, and was way too honest about that. It made him look so _needy_ \-- too eager to please what he would be better off despising or at least addressing with ambivalence.

It was so unhip of him.

Paul knew within himself that he wasn’t really “cool” in the way sullen existentialists (and eventually the world) defined it. He wasn’t “cool” like John – glamorous in his rudeness and his startling crudities.

He wasn’t “cool” in 1960, and he wasn’t “cool” even now. He knew that. John still teased him about it. Too uptight; to willing to go along to get along; too willing to “play the game” even though, in truth, John played it too, but less seamlessly.

That was really the great difference between how both John and Paul were perceived. John sometimes showed the effort it took to “go along” while Paul made it look like he was sliding down the surface of things without a twinge or an ache.

That wasn’t absolutely true, but only in private -- among the band and its team -- were Paul’s own push-backs, his own sometimes-ambivalent feelings and frequent objections known. Even then, they would often go unacknowledged because in the end, Paul had been raised to put on his game face, maintain a good front, give the Irish glad-hand all around while keeping his real thoughts and feelings close to the vest. It would always be Paul who would consent to doing “one more” radio interview when the others were done with it.

And yes, the band appreciated that. But they mocked it, too, because there Paul went, again, being the “teacher’s pet”, being the “diplomat”.

But it was through the Exi’s that he’d met Sophie.

She was from France, a childhood friend of Astrid’s. Her father had been a businessman whose work brought him frequently into the seaport city of Hamburg, and eventually into association with Astrid’s father.

During one summertime trip, Sophie and her mother had joined him for nearly a month and the two girls, while separated by a few years in age, had got on well. Sophie was fascinated by the older girl’s poise, her apparent world-weariness, her artistic sensibilities – particularly her fashion sense and her knowledge of textiles and design. For all she was French, Sophie was ungifted in those areas and knew it, so she admired it in others.

Astrid, for her part, found Sophie – a petite girl with dark hair and eyes and an angular sort of face -- to be a unique creature in a world of stultifying post-war sameness. Where everyone else was trying to get-on-and-get-ahead, she was detached, quiet and uncompetitive. Astrid called Sophie her “gallisches Rätsel” – her French Enigma or riddle – because on the surface she was sweet-natured, dutiful to her parents, obedient, thoughtful, compassionate and even faithful (the girl actually said her prayers before she went to sleep at night!), but beneath all of that was a curious and quick-witted mind, inclined toward cultural observation, anthropology and new ideas. On one hand Sophie wanted to understand people and what motivated them – what drove them toward destructive or constructive behaviors; on the other hand she took people as they were, at face value, so to speak, and enjoyed listening to them, asking the sorts of keen, bright, other-directed questions that made people call her “a great conversationalist” when in truth, Sophie said very little, content to listen, and to really hear.

All of that gave her an usual air of high innocence and deep insight, which made her both interesting and completely lovable.

The girls became steadfast friends, writing to each other almost weekly. In a letter celebrating Sophie’s graduation from her convent school, Astrid had ruminated on how both of them had grown and changed over the years, concluding, “You are so strange, my dear puzzlebox. A very nice, very smart girl who quickly reads people’s weaknesses and faults (particularly my own) and decides to like them, anyway. The nuns,” she had added slyly, “have done their work well with you. Probably too well. You have outsmarted them by learning how to see, yet to _love, anyway_.”

So, when a restless-sounding Sophie informed Astrid that she was putting off starting college for a year to “See some of the world I have missed in my safe little nunnery school,” – a plan that would have her visiting friends in Vienna and family in Canada – Astrid had begged the girl to “Pencil in some time in Hamburg and I will finally buy you your first beer! It is cold but beautiful here in October!”

Intent on introducing Sophie to the seedier, “more real” side of life, she had brought her into the Exi’s --all of whom were enchanted by the girl who was such a brilliant ~~listener~~ conversationalist and seemed to epitomize the rejection of all social trends. Sophie was so deeply uncool that – in the ultimate irony -- she transcended the very notion of coolness. “She’s like a princess who knows how to do the wash,” was how Stuart had described her.

John, especially, had loved Sophie almost immediately. Her veneer of softness hid, he learned quickly, a steely center that made her difficult to wound, but delightfully challenging to spar with. When he had rudely wondered, upon meeting her, how many men had tried to kiss her only to be impaled by her sharp chin, she had given him a rather shy smile and answered, “Just thirty-three, only, but I like round numbers, so how about it?”

“Oh, fresh!” Lennon had bellowed, his head thrown back in gleeful appreciation. “And a convent girl, no less! I am going to call you ‘So-phresh, from now on!” And he always did.

Outside of the occasional jabbery with John, however, Sophie was content to stay on the edges of the Exi’s, finding the small hints of sadness and fears of rejection that hid themselves between the sophisticated jokes and ruminations, watching the odd dynamic between lower-class Liverpudlians and higher-class Germans – so similar in the speed with which they put down others, so different in how they received the same – the English with grudging good humor, the Germans with a touch of ice.

The most interesting dynamic, in her mind, existed between John Lennon and that reserved-seeming Paul McCartney, and also between Lennon and Stu and Astrid. There were all kinds of deep waters flowing there, and all sorts of unasked questions, unvoiced anger. There were so many currents longing to belong somewhere, to flow as they were meant to, that it almost made Sophie dizzy with curiosity.

Her quietness, and her youth, meant that very often during an outing, Sophie would end up sitting, or walking, near Paul, straggling along, trying to keep up in conversation or in step. In that way, something small and sweet and almost wordless began to develop between them, all outside the awareness of the others. It began with small smiles, shared eyerolls when the Exi’s were trending into absurd pretenses, a wordless understanding. Eventually they started surveying each other on the sly, both blushing when they caught the other turning away quickly, although no one else ever seemed to notice.

Once, as they’d walked to a coffee house, lagging behind as always, Paul had reached out and touched her fingertips -- just the tips – with his own, and Sophie had ducked her head and smiled, because it felt so nice, and so sweetly unthreatening, as though she were a peony and he a hummingbird, just barely sipping at her.

Another time, they’d left a museum late and the band, needing to get to the club quickly, had needed a taxi. The whole group crammed themselves into the car and Sophie had ended up on Paul’s lap, where she sat tensely. The last time she’d sat on a man’s lap it was her father’s, and she had been perhaps six years old. Paul, seeming to sense her discomfort, had made a point of keeping his hands off her waist, to give no hint that he might try to cop a feel from her. What he did instead was catch her eye and raise his brows, and then run his fingers up her arm in a sort of spider crawl, jumping from her shoulder to her nose, then, only touching the tip.

“Boop!” He had mouthed the word but not said it, and Sophie couldn’t resist giggling at the silliness of it, or responding to his megawatt smile with one of her own.

After that, she had always felt relaxed around Paul, not minding when he tucked back a bit of hair when her unstylish chignon came loose or nudged into her as they sat at a crowded table. It was all so sweet and blameless, after all.

The band had been making their lodgings in filthy rooms behind the screens of a movie house called the Bambi Kino. For the most part, they would make do with cold water “spongebaths” from the lavatory sinks, but every week or so, Astrid explained, the need to be really clean drew one or another of them to the house, where they were welcome to take a hot bath. It was early November, just two days before Sophie was to travel to Vienna, when Paul showed up unexpectedly of a Sunday, a bag in hand carrying towels and a change in clothes.

She had stayed behind from a planned gathering of Astrid’s family, hoping to pack, study her schedules and write a slew of thank you notes for all the hospitality she’d enjoyed.

“I hadn’t realized you were alone,” he apologized when she let him in. “I can come back,” Paul offered.

All of Sophie’s manners and convent-training could not prevent the way her head turned and her nose wrinkled once his stench had wafted her way. “No, of course you must bathe,” she insisted.

He had blushed scarlet. “Sorry. A very lively couple of sets last night and the leather, you know. I’m pretty ripe.”

“As a cheese!” But she had smiled to put him at ease, even touching his shoulder a bit, “as the most costly _Époisses_!”

“Right, well, I’m going to assume that’s a good thing, and get out of your way before me stench makes your hair even curlier,” Paul had stepped lively past her.

He recalled that now, smiling as he sipped at his drink. She had wonderfully curly hair, Sophie, always just a little untidy, as though her quiet manner needed to permit one wild outlet. He’d slipped into the hot bath and submerged his head, desperate to rid himself of the combined sweat, Vaseline and just plain filth that had rendered his hair uncombable. After rinsing, he could hear the discrete tapping at the door. “Paul?” Sophie had called to him, “Are you hungry? I am making a little meal!”

At that moment his stomach had rumbled hugely, and he’d laughed, “Lass, I would name a song after you for a plate of anything, or a sandwich!”

She had laughed, a light, tingle of a sound; Sophie never guffawed. “It is a _real deal_ , yes?”

Paul guffawed for her. “ _Oui!_ A deal!”

The promise of lunch meant less time in the warm water, but he had been so filthy that staying longer would have been like lingering in his own sludge, so Macca finished up quickly, careful to clean the tub, lest the Kirchherr’s think him ungrateful. When he ambled to the table he was mostly dressed, shoeless and his hair still wrapped in a towel. “I think, Mademoiselle Sophie, you will find I no longer, er, how you say, _ressembler a’ un fromage_?”

Sophie chucked and gestured for him to be seated. “You never _looked_ like a cheese,” she corrected, smiling as she teased. “Only the _Époisses_ is reddish looking, and now, from the hot water, and the scrubbing…”

“Oh, she’s ruthless, this girl,” Paul made a sigh to heaven, “never a kind word…” Looking down at his plate, an artful layout of roasted chicken slices, small potatoes and mandarin wedges, he finished with a smile directed right at her. “But she knows how to present, and that makes up for it, aye? Sophie, love, this looks delicious. I may inhale it in one go!”

It had been the first time the two eighteen year-old’s had spent any time alone, and all the worldliness Paul presumed he possessed seemed to flee in the face of Sophie’s paradoxical manner, which was partly demure and partly forthright. She blushed often, lightly and prettily, but also made easy, confident eye-contact, while Paul, who might have been offhand or glib on another day, with another girl, found himself feeling very natural and grounded with Sophie, willing to talk about real things, rather than simply making jokes.

It felt restful, like a relief, really, and when he learned that Sophie’s father, to whom she was very close, had died two years earlier, it only served to deepen the conversation for both of them, especially when her voice caught and her eyes welled up for a moment, and she looked away, embarrassed at showing her emotions. Paul simply covered her hand with his own and gave it a warm squeeze. “I understand, lass,” he’d said. “And I’m sorry to tell you this pain never goes away. But… it does soften a bit, along with the memories, so that you can get on.”

Later, when he helped carry the dishes to the sink, and stood by with a dishtowel, something clicked between them. Whether it was the nearness after such an intensely shared conversation, Paul couldn’t say, but after he’d dried his third dish, he suddenly felt like he would die if he did not kiss her. He laid down the towel and came behind her, touching his fingertips, very tentatively, to her small waist and his lips to the back of her neck.

Sophie had stilled, her hands still in the water, and her breath going deep. She closed her eyes and leaned her head to the side, a little, as she felt his lips moving further along.

“Sorry, Sophie,” he murmured, letting his hands press into her waist before removing them. “You just look so pretty, and your hair tumblin’ about like that. Couldn’t help it.”

She had turned then, a little smile playing on her lips. “My sharp, pointy chin has run through every man who has ever tried to kiss me, you know. So John says.”

“John knows caricatures, not beauty,” Paul smiled back. “But have many tried, then? To kiss you?”

She had put a dramatic hand to her forehead and pretended to ponder it. “I cannot count so high. Hundreds, I think. Dead bodies, _tellement de_ , all about!”

“No, love, tell the truth,” he laughed, his arms going around her again, and Sophie not objecting. “This is an adorable little chin,” he said, taking it between his fingers and then ducking his head to kiss it. “You see, I am still alive, unimpaled!”

“Non, _c’est incomplet_ ,” she gurgled at him. “You have cheated the rules! It is to kiss my lips that leaves so many slain!”

“Really?” His eyes met her eyes, asking permission, feeling like with Sophie, this little convent girl, that step had to be taken. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to damn me for a coward, then. Shall I take my chances?”

Sophie nodded, that delicious little smile still playing on her red lips. “ _Oui_ , and I hope you will live.”

And then Paul had kissed her, very gently, with no wish to scare her, or seem too forward. He had taken her face between her hands and moved his lips over hers, as chastely as he knew how, and felt her smiling still. Pulling back, he felt her sigh. Her eyes remained closed; she simply stood there, looking much more expectant than he’d thought she would, and so he dove in again, this time his lips opened a little, just enough to dare her to do the same, and let him taste her.

After a moment, she did, parting her lips and permitting Paul to swipe gently, just touching her tongue. This time Paul smiled, giving a little groan and then pulling away.

“Ah, Sophie! I am slain,” he whispered in her ear, and then pretended to fall back upon the wall in agony. “The pain! I will not live long for daring to kiss the beautiful one!”

“Oh, _non, non_!” Sophie played along, pretending to catch him in her arms. “But what can I do? How can I help my so wounded prince?”

“A kiss!” Paul pretended to pant in anguish. “I must be kissed many times by a girl with hair all curly! But where is she? Where is my rescuer?”

“ _Jamais peur_! I am here, Paul! I will kiss you!”

“Many times,” he reminded her as he groaned.

“ _Oui,_ and many, many times,” the pretense was laughable, and both _would_ have laughed had they not wanted to kiss so badly. Their little game freed Sophie to toss herself into Paul’s eager arms and kiss him without reservation -- and yes, many times -- until their giggles had faded and the only sounds heard between the two of them were soft and moist and breathy.

“Sophie,” Paul had whispered, caressing her hips and then lifting her, drawing her against himself, “you’re so lovely.”

She had only moaned in response, a light sound that filled Paul with a greedy need he wasn’t inclined to resist. “Can we…” he gulped, kissing her again as he held her close and felt her press back, her small breasts, her hips. all on instinct. “Can we go somewhere, a place more comfortable than this?”

Sophie seemed to make a sound of disgust deep in her throat, one of those French half-growls Paul found so cute, coming from her.

“You do not like a wall?” She challenged him with a direct look – that unexpected boldness coming out again. “It is not enough I have saved you, my prince, you now desire to be so cozy?”

“Yes, Princess, _oui_ , I want,” he kissed her again and felt one of her legs wrap high around his hip. “I desire, _oui_ , to be so cozy with you.”

He hadn’t meant sex.

He really hadn’t. His idea was to lay Sophie down on a settee and neck with her until she stopped him -- and he was sure she would stop him. He meant only to play the temptor a little, tease her (and himself) a little. Let her discover what it was to be aroused, even though he would suffer for it until he could find a release later.  
  
Because she was too fresh, too innocent, he had thought, no virgin to be sullied by someone as promiscuous as James Paul McCartney, a lower class lad who had just last summer gone on a date and bonked the bird in the tall grass and then stopped over at Mendips and bonked Lennon, too, without a second thought.

But when Sophie had thrown her head back and closed her eyes, whispering “ _ma chambre_ ”, her arm strewn back to show the way, Paul’s best intentions began to desert him. He’d found the small guest bedroom easily enough, closing the door with one leg and then spotting the half-packed luggage on the bed. “You’re leaving tomorrow,” he’d frowned at her. “I didn’t know.”

“Next day,” Sophie had said as he lowered her. She slipped off her shoes and then moved the case to the floor. Standing by the bed, unshod, she suddenly looked very small to Paul, who was beginning to rethink everything. “Had I known you were going, Sophie…” he walked toward her, his hands outstretched to take hers, “I’d have brought you some flowers, or some chocolates. It feels like you just got here.”

“I have chocolates,” she looked up at him shyly. “What I do not have is a dark-eyed boy with a smile like yours.”

“Exactly what you don’t need,” he’d shook his head.

And then Sophie had made a face, groaning as her hand touched her tummy. “Oh, no,” she hissed.

Paul frowned over her in concern. “Are you ill, love? Can I help you?”

“Yes, yes, _oui_ , you must pick me up again, carry me, please.”

He did so easily, holding her bride-style and she brought her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. “Where shall I take you, lass, to the loo?”

“Just there,” she motioned with one hand toward the bed. “Just there, Take me on my bed, surely.” He felt her lips on his neck, just below his ear.

“You mean the bed right here, the bed you were just standing next to?”

“ _Ma oui_ , it is so cozy, yes?”

“You are a bad girl, Sophie,” Paul had marveled.

“Bad no, only _fresh_?” She had asked.

And at that Paul had fallen onto the bed, his arms full of this strange, sweet girl he knew he was unlikely to ever see again. And she was eager for him, in that way of dualities that seemed to define Sophie. She was tremendously responsive, but newly shy with each new experience of being seen, of being naked under a man’s gaze. When her breasts were exposed and touched and suckled with an attention only an orally-fixated boy could manage; when her tummy was delicately stroked and then nipped at, especially at the curve of her waist; when her legs were raised and tickled and squeezed and kissed. She would press her eyes tightly closed with each place Paul explored by mouth or with his hands and fingers, only to then unfurl, relax into all the new, unfamiliar sensations he was drawing out in her. She would reach for him, then, to touch him, explore in similar ways, with her hands, and her lips, until Paul would tremble to control himself, staying her touch and sighing into her neck.

It had all been so unplanned, so tender and slow, that their lovemaking felt nearly pure to Paul, as though for all of his experience, this coupling meant something deep and real and, somehow… _clean_. For Sophie to entrust herself to him in such a way (this little French Catholic girl who said her prayers) brought out in Paul a generosity and concern that he’d never experienced before – a protective sense that had been absent when he’d heedlessly buried himself inside Dot for the first time, or any of the other birds he’d merely used -- without a genuine worry for them, or their fears or their cravings. He should know better, now, and he did. 

And so he took his time with Sophie, asking her again and again if she was certain, urging her to say ‘stop’ if she didn’t want this. But Sophie never signaled ‘no.’ The only time she shook her head was when she wanted to control things a little, herself, taking Paul’s face between her hands and giving him a look of complete trust before kissing him.

He’d not used a condom. He had one with him – after a dose of the clap he’d recently recovered from, Paul always had one on him – but he couldn’t bring himself to use it with Sophie, and not for his sake, but for hers, for both of their sakes, and for the moment’s. Paul knew these thick rubbers could hurt girls; they were cheap, unrefined enough to intrude on a man’s sensation, yes, and anyone would think that was why he hadn’t paused and found his wallet and slipped it on.

Hell, he’d think it, himself, if some lad told him a similar story. 

He had considered it. While Sophie was sweetly undulating under him, urging him forward and panting in her arousal, he’d thought, “You should stop, get that,” but he couldn’t do it. There was something that felt ‘dirty’ and mechanical about pausing to get a rubber in that moment, interrupting this incredible place of sharing and anticipation they’d come to, so naturally, so purely. To stop everything for such a clinical action would have been, in Paul’s mind, too much like treating this lovely girl as he would any prossie on the Reeperbahn.

And it might hurt her, as well -- more than it should, anyway, and what Paul had wanted, beyond anything, was to not hurt Sophie. He’d spent a great deal of time toward that end, lingering over her breasts, using his mouth on her and then slowly slipping his fingers into her wetness, hoping to stretch her a little, to make it easier.

At one point he thought he was touching her maidenhead. The word ‘mine’ formed in his head -- a thought that oddly thrilled him -- and he’d pressed forward just a little further. “Are you alright, love,” he had whispered to Sophie, and she had sighed in response, looking straight into his eyes as she raised her knees, and that put any further hesitations to rest.

And it had been incredible, indescribably so, for both of them. Paul had been slow and tender, and Sophie had wrapped her legs around him almost immediately, without serious discomfort, her body surrounding him with heat, suckling at him, and they had moved together so perfectly that for Paul it felt like what he thought religion was supposed to be, as though they’d been enshrouded together in a fuzzy mist of light, in front of God and everyone, with no shame.

And he’d tried to pull out, he really had tried. He’d intended to. But Sophie had mewled under him, and clutched at his back, and as he felt her coming he couldn’t help himself – he was drawn deep and there Paul fell apart, unable to keep from spilling himself inside this beautiful innocent, and finding it hard to regret in the moment.

Afterwards, when they had come around to themselves, their bodies nearly steaming with sweat, Paul had slipped from the bed, kissing her again, moistly. “Don’t move,” he cautioned in a low voice. “I’ll be right back.” He returned almost instantly with a flannel and a small basin of water, urging Sophie to lower the sheet. She blushed once again, and this time nearly to scarlet, as Paul made a point of cleaning the girl (and the sheets) of as much of his seed and her blood as he could.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, struggling to meet her eyes. “I just… I just couldn’t stop,” but Sophie had demurred, counting on her fingers and saying she believed she would be fine.

They had managed a bare hour of cuddling and small talk – for some reason Sophie was delighted to learn that his first name was James, and shared that she too went by her second name. “Anne-Sophie,” she had smiled into his face, “So happy to know you, James-Paul.”

Two days later, she was gone. Astrid had brought notes to the band and the Exi’s from Sophie, little personal messages wishing each of them well. “James-Paul” had read the envelope for him, and the lads had teased Paul and fallen into a chorus of _Frere Jacques_ before he’d shoved it into his pocket.

It had said only, “You are beautiful, and I will treasure our time together” and included her home address – words Paul suddenly realized he should have said, and information he should have given, to Sophie.

Three months later, Astrid had forwarded a letter from Sophie to Stuart, who handed it off to Paul – miraculously unopened, Paul thought, as he recognized the handwriting.

Of course she was pregnant, and Paul had shaken his head. He had just gone through this with Dot, who had miscarried the previous May. Who would, in fact, have made him a father and a married man by now, had she managed to keep it.

“I’m as fecund as dammit,” he’d muttered to himself, feeling awful for Sophie, even though her letter was not at all morose. Once again, her forthright manner came through.

 _I tried to keep to my holiday in Canada, but my family there sent me home in disgrace._ _Ma Mère_ _is unhappy, but I am not sure if this is more because there will be a bébé_ _, or because I first gave myself to an ‘Irish Jackrabbit’ and (for worse) a musician, even though I have told her you are a very gentleman._

He could almost see her smiling as she wrote that, in her renegade way.

_There will be an adoption, so please do not fear that anything will affect your own dreams. Our little creation will be placed with a good Catholic family and hopefully be holier than either of us have managed! Until then, I am living with my father’s brother and his wife, who have a fine vineyard and who also managed to disgrace the family once upon a time, so we are companion outcasts!_

_The little one is to arrive in August, near the Fête de l'Assomption de Notre-Dame, so I will entrust all of this into her care and you too. Hopefully I will then begin my studies in September, if_ _Ma Mère_ _permits me out of her sight!_

_And by then, perhaps, you will be a famous singer who still owes a song in my name, for a meal of roasted chicken and an afternoon that will be always so beautiful in my memory._

_Au revoir, my Irish Jackrabbit. As we will meet again, if the accident will!_

Paul had read the letter so many times, he could still quote it five years later. Sophie had included her uncle’s address, no doubt hoping they would keep in touch.

And of course, he had not. Paul was not a bad correspondent, but he truly had no idea what he could say that would be of any use to Sophie. “I’m sorry I knocked you up? I keep doing that, and I don’t mean to?” “I’m glad the baby will be adopted because we are both very young and I’m not ready for it?” Completely inappropriate responses, he knew, but stalled for anything better, the letters he thought he should have written never left his head.

And he never told a soul, either, for Sophie's sake. If the baby was to be adopted, then no one needed to know that the darling girl they'd known so briefly had thrown herself away on a scruff like him. 

He had sent her a postcard in April, which he somehow believed was Sophie’s birth month. He had written briefly in his neat hand, “I am remembering you and hoping you are well on your birthday,” a crappy note only redeemed by the drawing of a jackrabbit where his name should have gone. He hoped it had amused her.

In August, around the time the baby was due to be born, he wrote out another card for Sophie, but never sent it. His words were too inadequate. How could this girl, who had carried the whole burden of his well-intended mistake, care to hear that the band was playing every night, bouncing from venue to venue in Liverpool, and gaining ground, while she was delivering their child and watching it be whisked away from her.

No, instead of sending the card, he had gotten good and pissed after a set, having a bellicose argument with Hazza and even having words with Lennon until he finally brought the matter up – along with his stinking guts – as John led him home.

“Jesus, Macca, you knocked up So-phresh, too? _How?_ I mean, _when?_ When did you even have the chance? You need to take more care with that randy pecker of yours, son. Or just give up the birds altogether, you know,” he had joked, “if I’m man enough for ye…”

And then, a month later, John had taken Paul to Paris, and… everything had changed for them, because it was in that city [where they had -- truly, finally, fully, and forever – fallen in love.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119496)

Emerging from his deep reverie, Paul finally opened the letter, and read.


	28. Talking to Small Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a lot going on, here, in this chapter. Paul reads Sophie's surprising letter and gloats over his beautiful daughter, remembering the day he had finally shared his secret with John, and John -- in a tender moment between them -- made a promise to Paul he would actually keep. Paul also realizes, much to his shame, that he, not John, is the more wayward father. Meanwhile, a highly amused John Dawson agrees to run an errand for Paul, who is capable of falling apart very quickly, and still suffering flashbacks. 
> 
> How people speak to each other (and themselves) when that are needy or in trouble became a very unplanned, but thorough, part of this. Hopefully you “will laugh, you will cry!” I hope you like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's been nearly three weeks since the last chapter. I do apologize and thank you for your patience. Life has been a little too much for last few weeks, but things seem to be leveling out. I hope you like this one, which answers a lot of questions about Sophie and also brings us into a crisis of fatherhood for John. Next chapter will move ahead a bit, showing us how Paul's relationships with Jane, George and Ritchie are going, and then John. And then... Christmas.

**_My dearest Paul,_ **

**_I am hoping that this letter finds you._ **

Paul couldn’t refrain from a chuckle. Not “finds you well” but “finds you.” Still, So-phresh!

**_In your last mail you had instructed me to write to you as Bernard Webb, to the office of your M. Epstein, or to your papa in Wirral, and I have chosen papa over an office where there is risk of perhaps an opening by accident which I am sure you would not like._ **

Still so smart, she was…

**_If my poor words have come into your hands, then I hope they are finding you well and recovering from whatever so terrible thing has befallen you. The news of your accident and confinement was of course, of all things, grievous to me, mon ami, and you have been in our prayers each day, as always, but in an especial way, now, distinct to your health and happiness._ **

**_This continues, naturellement, until the day you tell me to pray for you no more -- which I hope you will not, because it is a needed thing to have at least one person in the world praying for you while the rest of it is chasing for you or lusting after you, or making a thing of you, oui? So many times I think it must be a very dark place, this Rue de l’célébrité in which you reside, with so little of one’s own self left to live with, and such a fragmenting of what is real and what is false and why so many lies are needed._ **

Paul’s hand went to his chest as he read. He had to look away for a moment, before he could refocus. So many lies...

**_But I fear I am spinning my thread, here, and taking too, too long to explain my immediate thought, which is that if you are convalescing (as I believe you are) then I invite you to spend some of your time repairing with us, here in our quiet vineyard. You could, of course, stay in the chalet with us – there is an extra bedroom and it is yours for the taking -- but I expect you might like the little house a bit removed from us, which was used to be lived in by a foreman, but is now where we put_ _ma mère_ _when she comes to visit, because otherwise her visits would be of so short duration, oui?_**

Sophie’s mama…still so…so like Mimi, Paul would guess, only with a Gallic flair!

**_I know we are to honor our parents, and this is how I honor_ _ma mère --_ _by putting her far enough away, when she comes, that I do not desire her so soon to leave!_ **

He couldn’t help chuckling.

**_The place is rustic and small – you would call it so snug perhaps – but also very charming and of comfort, and will give you alone-time, solitude, if this is what you wish. I, of course, would never intrude upon you unless invited. And you could sup with us in evenings only as you like._ **

**_I enclose these two pictures, so you may see how our daughter grows. She is a darling little monstre, stubborn like a rock but also with great sweetness and you will like to know that already she is learning on the piano, and her teacher says she is_ _très_ _musical. If you come, your little one will play for you as much as you can stand – a little concert until your head will ache._**

She was musical! His hand went back to his chest.

**_But perhaps I am unkind to allude to a headache just now, oui? Only I do not think it is so, because in the news we see you and your friends with thumbs in the air and you in a hospital bed, but with all of your hair still on. Others may not ask, but of course, I do: How does a head accident so serious leave you with all of your glorious black hair still intact?_ **

SHIT! Whip-smart, she was. Still.

**_You need never tell me what is real, if you are to come here. Your life is your own, of course. It is enough that I see there is suffering behind your weary eyes, so dark, and real illness to overcome, that your smile may once more be whole._ **

**_It is with no designs on you, mon cher, that I invite you thus, only to see you again in health and gladness. Our little one, also, would be very happy to know her “pretend papa” for real-life, if it would make you happy, also._ **

**_Here, again, is my telephone number if you have lost it. Please call and say you will come – anytime your schedule and your wishes align, even for Christmas if you like! For that great gift, I would even bring_ _ma mère_ _here, into the cottage with us, so that you, at least, may have peace oui?_ **

**_In friendship constant,_ **

**_Your Sophie_ **

Paul closed his eyes for a moment. _Sophie_. Always so observant. And they hadn’t even _thought_ about putting bandages on his head for that photo. Smart, smart girl. “John Dawson would love you,” he said to no one, to the air.

Sophie. Always so kind, too, offering him some respite, and no questions asked, no demands made.

Sophie. So unwilling to ask anything of him, ever, except a little time in bed, and his willing friendship. Five years later, the girl had not changed.

He’d wanted to look at the photos the minute they fell from the letter, but first needed to know why she had written – that all was, in fact, well with her. And the baby.

Now, he picked up the shapshots and saw her, his little daughter, a baby no more. She looked up at him, no shyness in evidence – she seemed fearless before the camera -- and with those piercing dark eyes, so exactly like his own, her dark hair a little wavier than his, thanks to her mother. It must have been taken in the summer, because she was barefoot, her feet muddy as she smiled up at the camera, all long legs and chubby cheeks, one hand on a hip, the other – her left hand, he noted – holding a garden hose. She was beautiful and sassy, and he couldn’t help but run one finger across her face as he smiled.

Another picture, this time perhaps in autumn, for she was wearing a sweater, and Sophie was there, too, both of her arms around their laughing daughter and one finger pointing forward, as though she’d just told Michelle to look at the camera.

 _Michelle. Ma belle_.

The record would be released as a single, any day now. John had left a pressing of it with him when he’d visited, but Paul hadn’t listened, hadn’t really engaged with the idea of a new Beatles record being released in the middle of all of his physical and mental tumult.

He laid the snapshots side by side and just sat there, his chin in his hand, looking over all of that loveliness. Sophie looked nearly the same as she had in Hamburg – five years had not aged her as spectacularly as it had aged Paul. But then again, she had been living a simple country life; she hadn’t been rocketing around the world and drinking and drugging and giving herself away to millions of strangers, letting them suck of her energy. She looked young and lively; typically self-contained, yet all aglow as she hugged her daughter.

 _Their_ daughter.

 _My_ daughter. A thought he rarely permitted himself bring to the fore, because there were so many women out there claiming they’d borne one of his children. A few of them were hard to contest, but not impossible, and it was sometimes astounding to him how easily (and cheaply) claims could be bought off.

But this one, this wee four year-old scamp growing up in France with a mother who had not made a single claim upon him, this one he knew without a doubt was his own.

“You’ll not deny that one,” John had told him two years earlier, “she’s a little Macca complete, she is!”

They’d been drinking of a night during their Channel Islands tour, in August 1963, and he’d found John plopped down on the edge of the bed they’d been sharing and staring down at recent pictures of his infant son. “Look here, love, how big he is already! And I’m missin’ it ain’t I?”

Paul had sat down beside him and taken the snapshots, marveling at how quickly Julian had gone from looking like an adorable potato to a real person, his boppy cheeks filled out, and an irresistible smile aimed at Cynthia, who was mugging for her son.

“Aw, Johnny, he’s lovely, isn’t he? Just like you, he is. And look at the eye-contact between them. And look at Cyn, she’s so happy with him.”

“Aye,” John was gazing on the image with him, a bittersweet look on his face. One arm crept around Paul’s back to press into his shoulder. “It’s so strange, though. There’s my boy. And I love him, I do. But at the same time I almost don’t feel connected to him.”

“Well… it’s hard,” Paul had shrugged. “Little chap came along just as things are really beginning to happen for us, and you can’t help bein’ away just now.” _You didn’t have to go to Spain with Brian right after he was born_ , he wanted to add, but decided there was no point to starting up that complicated fight again.

“Aye. See how pretty Cyn looks, too, yeah?”

Paul smiled down at the shot and nodded. “A right Madonna, she is.”

“And I’m…” John sighed hugely, taking his arm from Paul and lighting a cigarette. “How’m I goin’ to do it, Macca? I’ve no idea how to be a father, and look at him, so beautiful! He deserves a good father.”

“You’ll _be_ a good father, John,” Paul had consoled him. “You’ll see. It’s just natural, innit? You spend a bit of time with him and you’ll find your instincts kickin’ in. You’ll be a fine daddy.”

“No,” John rejected the thought out of hand. “How’d I ever get any instincts when I’ve never had a _daddy_ , then,” he asked, his voice low. “You’ve seen me with kids. I have no idea what to do with ‘em.”

Paul handed him the bottle of scotch they’d put some damage to, and watched John take an impressive swig. “You just... Johnny, you just _love_ ‘em, you know,” he answered. “Whatever's going on, you just keep loving on them. You just be with ‘em. You just talk to ‘em the way you talk to people you love, aye?"

“I don’t know how to do that, Macca. I barely know how to talk to real people, forget about the ones I love! Kids are like--”

“They _are_ real people, though. You just gotta, you know… listen to what they say and then answer ‘em the way you’d want to be answered if you were a kid.”

“Oh, thank you, Prince McCartney, that clears it up! That’s somethin’ you know how to do because you _were_ a real kid! I’ve… I have no idea how I wanted to be answered when I was a child, you know. Don’t remember lookin’ for a particular way of it." He took a breath, his frustration melding away into an honest expression of fear. “I’m going to be a terrible father, an absent father, ain’t I? Just like my own.”

“No!” Paul had objected.

"Yes, just like Alfie. I'm never there."

“Lots of fathers need to be away from home sometimes, John – sailors and soldiers and salesmen – it doesn’t mean they’re bad fathers. It means they’re supporting their families.”

“That’s rot,” John spat out, even though his eyes were begging Paul to keep going. Paul obliged.

“John, love, there is a world of difference between a man whose career takes him away, and one who simply abandons the family by choice, and if you can’t see that…”

“You’d never do it, though. If you had a family you’d spend all the time you could with ‘em.”

“Which is just as you do.” E _xcept for Spain…_ He squashed that thought and studied John for a moment, recognizing a genuine anguish in his lover's expression. He made a decision, and took a big breath. Time to tell, finally.

“In fact,” Paul said quietly, “if there’s a bad father in this room it’s me, you know.”

John had turned his head and given him a quizzical look. At that, Paul had dragged out his wallet and, with a guilty look, brought John into the only secret he’d ever kept from him. He handed over a picture he’d cut out from a larger snapshot and had been carrying with him for two years. 

“What’s this,” John frowned, hauling his glasses from his pocket to get a clear look at the black-and-white photograph of dark, lovely toddler clutching a stuffed bunny in her chubby little arms. His eyebrows immediately rose, nearly to his hairline. “ _Ohh_ ,” he exclaimed softly.

“That,” Paul said after taking another swig from the bottle. “That’s Marie-Michelle Pauline. Or, as Sophie calls her, “Michelle.” Using her second name, just like me and Sophie herself.”

“ _Sophie?_ ” John sounded shocked.

“Anne-Sophie, if you please, yeah.”

“Wait. Sophie is raising her? I thought she was--”

“The adoption didn’t happen,” Paul said shortly. “She was born in August of ’61. Some holy day, actually.” He shook his head, regretfully. Apparently, Spain was going to come up, one way or another.

“Remember, John, when – remember when you went off to Barcelona, with Brian?” He could have kicked himself for stammering, and showing John that it still mattered to him. “An-and the lads and I went off to Tenerife with Astrid? In ’63? It was just a bit before my birthday.”

John gave him a sideways look, not really wanting to hear about Spain again, and his miserable-bastard lapse in judgement – _say it, your pure selfishness_ \-- that had created what would forever be a sore point be between him and Paul. _Along with Paul’s twenty-first birthday party, too, thank you very much_.

“Yeah?”

“Well, y-you know I almost drowned, then, right?”

“I remember the story, yes, Macca. You were nearly swept out to sea and no one was lookin’ out for you. You got back to shore and yelled at everyone.”

“Yeah,” Paul gulped, glad for the cold summary. “It was be-before we left, at the end. Astrid pulled me aside and gave me a letter that Sophie’d asked her to deliver. Told me she’d been unsure she wanted to give it to me. But then, she said, ‘You almost drowned, and life is short.’ I’m sure she was thinkin’ of Stu and all.”

Both men were silent for a moment, _Stu Sutcliffe_. More relationship baggage. John found himself reaching out for Paul’s thigh, needing to give it a squeeze -- to have some physical contact that could bring them both back into the now -- away from so many memories of all the ways he’d screwed up with Paul, when they were younger. So many, memories, and all coming at him at once.

“And _then_ ,” he asked quietly, hoping to get his partner back on track.

“Yeah,” Paul said, rubbing his face and then covering John’s hand with his own. “So, that was when I’d found out that Sophie had kept the baby – that she couldn’t bear to give her up. Her mother told her that if she kept it, she’d get no support from her, that she’d have to give up going to university and raise her daughter herself.”

“And so, she did,” John couldn’t lips from turning upward. “Bold little thing, our So-phresh!”

“Aye, she stayed on the vineyard with her auntie and uncle. She said she never intended to tell me, but then…” He smiled down at the picture John still held. “Well, look at her. She’s a little me. Sophie said she just couldn’t look at that little face every night and not share it with me.”

John studied his friend's face in profile. “Did you mind it,” he asked, interested.

“No, how could I? Look at her.” A chest-heavy feeling came upon Paul, as it always did whenever he looked down at his daughter’s face. He chuckled at the stuffed bunny, a nod to her ‘Irish Jackrabbit’ of a father. Paul had gotten Sophie’s sly joke, immediately.

The two men sat there, hip-to-hip, each holding a snapshot of the other’s child and studying them intently. “She’s the bleedin’ image of you, love," John marveled. "Truly. And Julian looks enough like me. They both... these would be what our kids would look like, you know…”

“They are what our kids look like,” Paul had laughed. But he understood. “Our family,” he nearly whispered to John.

“Aye. _Our_ family.” John leaned over then, planting a small, tender kiss on Paul’s cheek. “Why haven’t you told me before,” he couldn’t help asking.

Paul shook his head, unwilling to speak for a moment. Finally, he swallowed, as though his throat was tight. “Partly for Sophie’s sake, I think. Her business is her own, you know?” John grunted in understanding and agreement.

“But really…” He looked up at John, his eyes wary, and a little wet. “John… Sorry to say it, but the truth is I… I couldn’t have borne it if you’d made a joke, or teased me about her, about Michelle. I just…” his voice trailed off.

“You couldn’t trust me,” John said quietly, having trouble holding Paul’s gaze. He knew all too well what Macca was saying. “Couldn’t trust that I’d not find a way to _hurt_ you with her, if I wanted to hurt you?”

Paul shook his head again, but it became a discreet nod. He swallowed once more and looked away as one tear slipped down his face. “Maybe,” he admitted, as his stammer came on again. “Maybe I couldn’t feel really safe to tell you until you had a baby of your own, and you know, und-"

“Understood.”

“… Aye.”

John gently removed Julian’s photo from Paul’s hands, and placed both children’s pictures on the nightstand. He placed the bottle of scotch on the floor. “Lay with me,” he whispered, nudging his partner down to the bed.

“No, John, I’m not in the m--”

“Shh, _shush_ , Macca, I just want us to lay together, yeah? We’ve both had too much drink for more than that, anyway – it’d be sloppy. Come on. Kick off your shoes, love, and just lay down.”

Paul obeyed, reluctantly at first, unwilling to relax or to meet John’s eyes, which bothered Lennon, but only a little, because he was wholly aware of the distrust he’d earned. Their very conversation this hour had inadvertently – uninvitedly – brought home the full weight of the many ways he’d mistreated his lover – with Brian, in Spain; with Stu, everywhere; with the Exi’s in Hamburg; with so many others, at a thousand turns and parties.

Through the years he had hurt Paul, over and over, and had done so simply because he could. Because somewhere in his ever-fevered brain, he knew that what Paul gave him -- had been giving him since they were kids -- was unconditional, and therefore trespassable.

And John had trespassed again, and again.

They lay there, facing each other, legs intertwined together, and John was gently stroking Paul’s hair, asking nothing, waiting until (finally!) those dark hazelnut-honey brown eyes met his. “I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered, watching Paul blush, as he always did when apologized to. “Truly,” he continued, "I am." He moved closer, bringing his lips to Macca’s forehead and brushing his fringe away. “You know I love you, don’t you? Paul?” 

The younger man, eyes wide and still wet, could only nod. “I know…” His lips formed the words, without sound.

“I know we do this over and over, like a lunar cycle” John said, speaking with real gentleness. “I fuck up; you forgive me. I tell you I love you, and you… you _believe_ me. I don't know why, but you do.”

He kissed him again, this time on Paul’s lips. “Thank you for believing me, love. Because you should. Sometimes I think the only true words I’ve ever spoken have been said to you, and maybe even then, only _those three_ words. Even if…” His own stammer arose as his own eyes began to well. “Even if--if I shouldn’t be ever be trusted with them. I know it’s hard for you to say them back, and that’s probably my, m-my own fau--”

At that, Paul reached over, bringing John into a hug, drawing him nearer, and tucking his lover’s head into his chest like a parent moving to hush an ashamed child. “Shh, love,” Paul whispered. “Stop. Just stop, love, I know. I know you. I know you love me. So, just _stop_.”

“I’ll never do it, Paul,” John said in a broken voice. “You can trust me on it. I’ll never tease you about her. I won’t joke about our babies, love.”

“Our family,” Paul said, his own voice wavering. 

John nodded, shuddering in the younger man’s arms and waiting, hoping that Paul would use the words he dealt out so sparingly, so carefully, because he knew their value. He felt Macca’s lips on his head as his arms embraced him tightly at the shoulder and the waist, holding him close.

“John?” Paul said after a few minutes had passed in silence.

“Aye?”

“I think I have the answer for you. About talking to kids, and all?”

John’s hopes began to crash. He wasn’t going to say it. He bit his lip and kept his tone light. “What’s that, Macca?”

He felt Paul’s lips on his hair, again.

“When you don’t know how to talk to Jules, when you feel scared, like that?”

“Yeah?”

“Talk to him the way you talked to me, babe – like you just did. Like you know what he needs to hear, and you know what you need to say. It’s that easy.”

Lennon couldn’t help smiling into Paul’s chest. This lad would never get it, no matter how well he knew him. Paul McCartney would always think too well of John Winston Lennon. “Macca,” he murmured, “you thought that was _easy?”_

Paul’s chest had rumbled in quiet amusement. “You make it ‘way more difficult than it needs to be, you know.” He ducked his head down, lifting John’s up between his fingers to kiss his lips. “Which is probably why I love you, all-in-all. Why live easy?”

Paul was still smiling, remembering it now. John had kept his word: Never did he say a negative or mean or teasing thing about his daughter. It was their shared secret, Sophie and Michelle – something even Ritchie and George knew nothing about. “Our family,” they would whisper to each other in private moments as they watched Jules grow and wondered what Sophie might look like, by now, “Our babies.” And one of them would always find a way to discretely touch the other, to make that connection.

When Paul had decided he wanted to do a song reminiscent of the music they’d heard in Paris, one of those Frenchy sort of songs that brought to mind striped shirts and small rowboats adrift in the sunlight, it seemed natural to write it for Michelle. _Ma belle, these are words that go together well, my Michelle._

Ivy Vaughn’s wife had translated the line for him, but Macca had been mangling the bridge, until John had come up to him one day in the studio and rested his chin on the younger man's shoulder, peering at Paul's notes and noticing all the scratched out lines.

“Hon,” he had whispered with a grin. “I can’t believe you can’t find it. It’s _easy,_ innit? Like you told me: Talk to her the way I talk to you.”

Paul had frowned at him, not quite remembering the moment, which surprised John. “Oh, for chrissake, Macca!” He started to sing out _“‘I love you, I love you, I love you, that’s all I’ve got to say…’”_

Three bridges and an affectionate bathroom snog-session later, it had been finished.

And now, it was an official Beatles record, awaiting release, and until this moment, its reality had been barely in his awareness. But Paul found himself frowning as he scanned Sophie’s letter again and re-read that his daughter _would be very happy to know her ‘pretend papa’ for real-life, if it would make you happy, also._

He wondered about the line. Would it, then? Make him happy?

 _Our family,_ the words flew up to him from his resurfaced memories _. Our babies._

He suddenly had an interest in the record – an urge to hear it. Grabbing a set of headphones, he slipped it onto the turntable and listened.

It was just a fluffy song. A little nothing. Had it not been about Michelle, John likely would have savaged it, he suspected.

But it was sweet, too, and pretty, as he listened a second and then a third time, Paul decided his vocal had struck a sincere note, that something real could be detected under the fluff. _If it’s a hit, it will be because it sounds authentic_ , he thought, _people respond to what is genuine_. 

And then, suddenly, he realized that he sounded authentic on the song because he actually was sincere, that the rest of the bridges were his own words, not John’s. _I'll get to you somehow. Until I do, I'm telling you so you'll understand…_

Looking around, he found some cardboard and larger envelopes in a desk.

**_My Dear Sophie,_ **

**_You may stop wondering whether your “poor words” would reach me. They have come into my hands courtesy of my father, and I_ – **he scribbled that out and continued with a hurried hand **– _it made my day to see your handwriting…_**

 _What an awkward thing to write!_ He balled up the page and started anew.

**_Lovely Sophie,_ **

_No, no, no. Too much._ When had he become a ham-fisted correspondent? He used to know how to do this!

The next attempt got scrunched-up and tossed, as well. _Don’t try so hard, he told himself, be authentic. But don’t make her want to kill herself_.

That warning destroyed two more pages of the expensive, borrowed stationary he would have to replace, before Paul finally could get a handle on himself.

**_Dearest Sophie,_ **

**_Thanks to my father, and your cleverness in writing to him, I have your lovely missive in hand and I thank you for it, and for the pictures. You are, as ever, the most thoughtful and generous ~~girl~~ person I have ever known, and your reaching out to me at such a low period, well… what can I say except this Irish Jackrabbit needed a bit of French Thistle to pluck him up, like a badly needed tea. Something to, you know, cleanse the blood, and all._ **

There… that was working.

**_As ever, I am amazed at how smart you are, and how easily you observe what others just as easily miss. You are, I am sad to say, only too right that the stories about my accident didn’t have much truth to them. The reality… well, I ~~cannot~~ will not trouble you with the particulars, because they are too much, but only know that I am, indeed, recovering (it is true, more slowly than I would like). I know with certainty that hearing from you, and seeing these beautiful photos (thank you, again!) has acted like a tonic on me, and will help me to get better. They are a truly bright note in what has become a gloomy nightmare of a concerto. McCartney concerto in mur-key minor._ **

_Hmm, too much? Too dark?_ Would she even get his word-play? He read it again and shrugged. In for a penny, in for a pound, and all…

**_Sophie, she is beyond beautiful! She looks like the daughter of a pirate -- like a scallywag who will steal one’s heart, and all one’s treasure, while smiling. Or perhaps swearing. I can almost hear her brogue! Or, as a French pirate, her patois, I guess?_ **

**_And you look every bit as lovely as in my memory. I am so glad you included a shot of the both of you. What I see before me are two beautiful and happy girls, and you both deserve to be happy, which is why – although your offer of hospitality is appreciated (The idea of a weekend spent walking through vineyards in the fresh air and no crowds does sound heaven-sent) – you don’t need me to bring my clouds and shadows into your light._ **

_Come on, Paul, stop hinting to her that you’re not to be trusted around ledges and sharp knives. Don’t beg for sympathy if you’re not telling her why. Not fair. Move on._

**_Sophie, love, I am not sure what you mean by a ‘pretend papa’ – is this how you explain the Christmas and birthday gifts to that little puss? If it is, I don’t blame you, because I have never signed them, and you have been left on your own to decide how best to deal with the strange fact of me, forever in your lives, but also not._ **

_Why aren’t you in their lives, you ass? Because you can’t stop chasing fame – can’t ignore le Rue de l’célébrité, so dark as Sophie had guessed._ And darker, so much darker, now.

Paul was lost in those thoughts for some minutes, until he willfully pulled himself away from them, shaking his head and biting on his pen before he could continue.

**_But I am wondering if this is a language issue, and I am misunderstanding you. Do you mean ‘ secret papa’? If so, I guess that’s right. But it strikes me as wrong, as well, for Marie-Michelle’s sake. (A beautiful name!)_ **

**_If I am confused, then I worry she might be confused as well, and so please – if you want to – go ahead and tell her that I am her papa. I don’t mind it. In fact, I do hope one day, we will meet._ **

_I do_ , he suddenly realized. _I really do. Maybe_.

He touched pen to paper, again.

**_But if you don’t want to, I completely understand, since I am I guess a 'pretend' -- or more properly -- an ‘absent father’, and that is to my own shame. I am sorry. I heartily despise myself for becoming the thing John most despises in this world, something I’ve only just realized is what I am. A bit of a deserter – off chasing what has never been enough, ~~never can be,~~ and therefore quite unworthy to be called her papa. _ **

His head fell into one hand as he rested for a minute, struggling to overcome a sudden wave of memory and self-revulsion. Voices and flashing lights and door frames came into his thoughts like a flood.

_“Take it all, pretty, ‘way down your lovely throat…”_

_Two fingers shoved roughly up inside him, dry._ What fame had brought him to.

_Stopitstopitstopit..._

STOP IT! _Come away, Paulie,_ he said to himself, _back your letter, back to Sophie, there’s the lad…_ He returned to his correspondence, his fine penmanship barely betraying the way his hand shook.

**_Again, I am sorry, so sorry, that I have been such a bad father, and a bad friend to you, so remiss in so many ways, when you both deserve more. And better._ **

**_But she is beautiful, so beautiful, and so much of that beauty comes from you, and from the fact that she is a happy child, and all of that is because she has a good, loving mama. I hope, someday, she has a good papa, as well – she deserves it, and you do, too. You deserve a family, and to be happy with a man who can give you everything of himself._ **

**_If I ever was that, I am… not, now._ **

The pen slipped from his fingers, creating a little smear near that line. He rubbed his face, roughly, with both hands, managing to work the tears into his skin, as though he could push them back where they came from. _Enough of that. Stop it. End it, now._

**_Sophie, I would not blame you if you never wanted to talk to me, but here is my number and my address, the flat where I am living now – I’ve moved out of Jane’s place but my own house isn’t yet ready. Please ring me up if you ever like. If you don’t, I know why._ **

He finished in a hurried hand.

 **_Also, I have included this little record, a 45 release that will probably be out by the time you get this. I’ve autographed it. Maybe someday it will have value, so keep it nice!_** **_Tell my little pirate not to eat it or throw it around. Unless she wants to._ **

_Your father never dithered like this..._

**_~~As ever~~ _ _With my love, such as it is,_ **

**_Paul, a bad friend to Sophie_ **

**_PS:_ _Is she left-handed? Does she speak English?_ **

**_PSS: I know I am hopeless. Ignore me._ **

Packing the letter into his little parcel before he could change his mind, Paul put it at the center of the table, along with a note for John Dawson, asking him to mail it as he left in the morning. A bit of cash was included, he added, "because I know nothing of postage rates.”

As he prepared for bed, he worried that if Dawson were in a hurry he might miss the note. And Jane was coming over tomorrow; she’d wonder why Paul was writing to a woman in France. _Stupid. You should have used A-S, her initials, instead of Sophie’s name_.

Well, that settled it. Dawson couldn’t be permitted to miss the package in the morning. So, after brushing his teeth, Paul went back into the kitchen, retrieved the bundle and brought it to the detective's overcoat, resting it precariously at the collar.

As he was leaving the room, he heard a noise and turned in time to see the parcel slip down to the carpeted floor.

In that moment, Paul's stress level went through the roof.

John Dawson, sound asleep, awoke in mid-snuffle and with a panicked start, jumping at the sound of a frenzied Macca bursting into his room and calling his name with some urgency. “John please, wake up, I’m sorry! Wake up!”

The young man was tugging at his nightshirt with one hand, clutching something to his chest with the other.

“ _What?_ What is it, what’s happened, Paul?”

“I’m sorry, I just need you. I’m sorry to wake you up. I just need you.”

“It’s alright, it’s alright, lad, but has something happened? Was someone here?” He cocked an alarmed eyebrow at the package Paul seemed to be guarding. “Did someone slip that under the door?”

“What?” Paul looked at the envelope, suddenly understanding. “Oh! No, no, nothing like that. I’m sorry. I just… I needed to you to know – I was, I was afraid I might not see you in the morning, and I wanted to ask you-”

“Slow down, son,” Dawson counselled, sitting up and putting one bearish hand on Paul’s shoulder before he could start stammering. “What is it,” he said more gently. “What has you so panicked that you need to ask me a question at this hour?”

Paul’s face, already tense, nearly broke as he considered what he was doing. “I’m sorry, John, sorry. I didn't think.”

“It’s alright, my boy, but – take a breath. Calm yourself, now. I don’t mind it, you know, if you need me.”

“I just…” Paul began to slow down. “I just… I _do_ need you, John, but... It’s stupid, now. I’m sorry.”

Dawson studied the lad for a moment and realized nothing was really wrong. Still, the boy was in a state, and needed to be rightly dealt with. For just a moment, he felt like his high-strung Neddy was with him, again.

“Paul?”

“Aye, what?”

The big man chuckled. “What are you doing on my bed, with a letter and what looks like a ten pound note in your hand? Are you daft or is this some sort of bizarre proposition?” He frowned at Paul from beneath his brow. “Paul McCartney, you’re not fallin’ in love with me, are you?”

Paul sat stunned for a moment, his lips agape, until he got the joke and nearly smiled. “Oh, stuff it, John! I just… it’s really stupid, but…” He sighed hugely, his whole chest heaving with it as he finally began to pull himself together. “What is wrong with me? I’m mad, that’s what it is! I’ve gone starkers! I just… I didn’t know if I’d see you in the mornin’ and I wanted to make sure you’d seen the note I’d left askin’ you to mail this for me.”

He watched Dawson’s face go from pink to bright red as he pressed his lips together.

“I’m sorry, John, really. I don’t know what I was thinkin’ to wake you. I’m not usually like this.”

“You’re givin’ me ten pounds to mail that, are you?”

Paul went wide-eyed, looking every bit the over-earnest boy scout he could be. “It’s goin’ to France!”

At that, John Dawson erupted, falling back to his pillow with a wall-shaking bark of laughter.

“Oh, lad, you’re killin’ me. I know you don’t mean to be funny, but I’ve never laughed so well as I have with you, tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” Macca said for what seemed like the hundreth time.

“No, don’t be, Paulie, don’t be.” This time Dawson sat all the way up, right beside Paul, who looked more humiliated than the older man ever intended for him to feel. He planted his big feet on the floor and noticed that Paul’s own were bare on such a chilly night. “You’ve got nice arches,” he observed, meaning to distract the lad and help assuage his guilt. “Good and high. Must help you bounce around like you do. See mine?” He gestured downward. “Fallen, they are. Copper’s arches. I don’t bounce. More of a wobble.”

Paul was biting his lip, still looking anxious. “I don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not sure what to make of that.”

Dawson chuckled again, rubbing his hands over his lips to hide his glee. “Who’s in France, then?”

“Oh. Um, no one. Just a friend.”

“Alright, well, Paul,” he patted his leg. “Put away your concerns and stop worrying, and for God’s sake, stop apologizing. I’ll be happy to mail that thing for you.” He took it from Macca’s hands and read it. "For Sophie, your friend in France.”

“Thank you.” The younger man’s shoulders finally came down as he relaxed. “I didn’t want Jane to see it, and I was afraid you’d leave bef-”

“Before you could ask me, yes, son I got that. Let me assure you, though, that I have no intention of leaving here until I know I’ve gotten a decent breakfast into you. So… no worries, aye?”

Paul’s chest rose and fell again; his shoulders lowered even further. Clearly, he was very relieved.

“And now, Mr. McCartney, do you think you could finally go to sleep, aye?” He pulled the younger man into a one-armed hug, nuzzling his head affectionately. “And let an old cop get his own rest, will you?”

“Alright,” Paul stood and began to pick at his fingers, shifting from foot to foot as he watched Dawson adjust his blankets and fluff his pillow. “Thank you, John, and I’m sor-”

“Don’t say it again,” Dawson growled, sounding officially out of patience. “You’re all right, lad. This is not a problem.”

“Alright, then,” Paul repeated. “Goodnight, John.”

“Eh, one thing,” Dawson asked as he went to turn out his light. “Who is this Sophie? A looker, is she?”

“Mother of my daughter,” came the mumbled answer as Paul ambled out.

“Wait!”

“Goodnight…”

“Are you telling me it’s not enough that you’ve John and Jane – you’ve a daughter in France as well?”

“And you wasn't meant to know any of that, were you?” Macca sounded a little annoyed at himself. The bedroom door closed with a bit of reverberation.

“He _is_ a one,” Dawson murmured to himself, once again tumbling into amusement. “And now he’s got a daughter? Next he’ll let slip that he's got a harem waiting for him. In Wales. With bells on.”

 _“Oh, Paulie,”_ he called out in a loud, horrible falsetto. “Paulie, are there any other secrets in your unending spool of mystery? Have you fucked the queen, yet? Or the prince? Or the corgies?”

“Oh, bugger yourself, John Dawson!” Came the exasperated response from the other side of the wall.

“If only I could,” Dawson called back.

He fell asleep chuckling. A first, perhaps, for any cop.

He loved that kid.


	29. Into the Shadowlands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane spends two nights with Paul and finds that things are different between them, that the sexual games that had papered over small difficulties in their relationship were useless against the evil and trauma that had not only taken Paul away from her (and away from himself) but still held him prisoner. Her youth had gambled on a simple fix, but her nobility has managed to rightly identify the true enemies. Sadly, neither she nor Paul have the wisdom or the experience to fight against them. And then there is John, always John, the true hinge upon which Paul must hang any chance of recovery Paul might make. 
> 
> And Paul's self-hatred is so vast -- unwarranted but real -- that he just wants to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an angsty chapter, with a lot of discovery and sadness. Paul and Jane cannot outlast the misery that has been inflicted upon him. Next chapter, I promise, will be have a bit of zest to it, thanks to a surprise visitor!

Paul was lying in bed, staring straight ahead, watching the moonlight as it crawled over the ceiling, first through one window then another, making its nightly celestial journey across a mostly heedless world. He was remembering another sleepless night, one spent in his small bedroom on Forthlin Road, watching moonshadows while waiting for the world to finally right itself.

It never did. He knew then that it never would.

It had been his first night home, after having been sent away when Mary died. He and Mike had arrived in time for supper, which their Auntie Jin was preparing for them. By their father’s undemonstrative silence, the boys correctly read that they too should be keep their thoughts and feelings to themselves. No tears. No grief. No speaking of Mary.

They’d shared the meal, the food like ashes in their mouths, and given monosyllabic answers to Aunt Jin as she tried several times to create an illusion of normalcy, as though this was a normal supper, something ordinary, with cheerful chat and good appetites.

Every effort of Jin’s was defeated as Paul simply stared at her, and then at his father, his big eyes asking the questions his lips were not permitted to form: _This is it? This is life, now? Must we not talk about our Mum dying? Our being sent away? Must we not talk about the sight of our father, eschewing supper for the bottle, and the glass he keeps refilling, head in hand?_

Michael, being younger and more eager to please, tried to keep up a banter with Jin, but the vision of his silent father, coupled with the ever-increasing darkness showing up in Paul’s look, intimidated the boy into silence.

Finally, as Jin put up a pot of tea, Paul looked directly at Jim. “Should have thought you’d have managed your drinkin’ while we were gone all this time. Why’d you bring us back, then, just to watch you go sloppy?”

With a surprisingly fast reflex, his father had reached across the table and given Paul a resounding smack across his face, loud enough, violent enough to cause Jin to gasp and Michael to push his chair back in panic.

“You’ll not use that tongue on me, boy,” Jim had muttered, his eyes ablaze with drink, but his voice hinting of something like shame as he lowered his head.

Paul had stood up, holding an intent look upon his father. “I’m going to bed,” he announced.

“Let me give you a compress--” Jin had started, but her words dried up as she took in Paul’s expression. His lips pressed tightly together, his eyes black coals of fury, the lad looked like a human flame-thrower, and Jin – clutching a tea towel in both hands -- found herself taking an involuntary step away from her dearest nephew as he stepped toward her.

He had stared at her for a moment, his huge familiar eyes so full of a new and strange intensity, and Jim McCartney moved his own chair back as he watched his son, unsure -- for the first time ever -- what the boy might be intending.

After a beat, Paul had exhaled, sounding like a bull holding back a charge. He leaned in, kissing his aunt’s cheek with a gentleness that belied everything his face and body-language were screaming out. “I’m going to bed,” he repeated, his tone brooking no argument, his steps loud and fast as he went to his room.

And then, he’d just lain there, watching the scant light move across his walls and ceiling, just as he was this night, and never finding his rest.

Except this time, he was not alone. Jane was snuggled against him, breathing softly, her flame-red hair all strewn about the both of them, her wee elfin body – so like Dot’s (so like Sophie’s) so exactly to his taste – both a comfort and a misery to him.

She had come to his bed wearing the white button-down shirt he’d worn all day, and her doing so had thrown him for a loop. It was a look she knew he loved, knew he found sexy and appealing. So many nights she’d come to bed like that, a tiny teenaged girl in a man’s broad-shouldered shirt, occasionally with a messily undone tie around the collar if she wanted to play a bit. She would straddle him, smiling down at Paul as he teased her. “You on a gender-bender, love,” he would murmur, giving her a look and letting his fingertips roam over the broadcloth until she shivered and her nipples perked up beneath the fabric. His hands would skim underneath to fondle her until she would sigh and moan, and Paul would drag her down to the mattress and begin a slow process of unbuttoning and kissing – each new bit of exposed flesh being attended to by his full lips and this teeth and his tongue, until the shirt finally lay fully open and the luscious alabaster and strawberry pinkness of his girl was fully exposed to his eyes, his busy hands and needy mouth.

He’d always loved it when Jane had come to him costumed in this way, his passion rising quickly even as he worked his way so slowly over her, until she was breathless and begging, and his own mind began to feel split, giddy and strangely high. Jane-in-a-man’s-shirt, and what it seemed to arouse in Paul, always meant they would rest well – sweaty and sated and smiling as they cuddled off to sleep.

Tonight, though, as Jane had approached the bed like that, Paul had been thrown into a panic, feeling as though he was being challenged to perform for her, or being tested to see whether his bits still worked – whether he was “still a man” after having been so brutally handled by men. By _four_ men, although Jane did not know that, and never would, if Paul had his way.

Things had been rather tense between them ever since she had arrived the previous afternoon. Jane had trooped in later than planned, bustling about with an armful of food her family’s cook had prepared – “roast beef and broiled potatoes and carrots and Yorkshire pudding, everything you like!” But she had seemed over-cheerful, as though she were nervous to be alone with Paul.

He’d understood that, actually, because he had been feeling nervous to be alone with Jane, too, and as she bustled about the kitchen making tea and chattering – talking much too quickly about nothing of particular interest – Paul had found himself backing into a corner, his arms going round his own shoulders in his habitual self-consolation. His smile was forced. As was Jane’s.

Things had become only a little less tense over the early supper as Jane shared some theater gossip and both of them exclaimed too frequently that Cook had managed a fine gravy and pudding. Hanging over all of it were so many unasked questions on both their minds, and largely similar.

_Who are you now, Paul?_

_What is to become of us, as a couple?_

_Will you ever tell me what you really think?_

_Will you ever tell me the whole of what you endured, and trust me with it?_

Both felt an interior, unspeakable shame, Jane, for wondering, “Why am I here?” Paul for wondering the exact same thing. What was Jane to him, now? What was he, to Jane? _Why is she even here?_

But of course, she _should_ be here. She was his girlfriend. He was her first love. It was time for them to show a bit of mutual support to each other, yeah? Work together to mend and heal from the effects of such a traumatic few weeks?

And yet, it was all so uncomfortable. Paul had been grateful when, after cleaning up from the meal, Jane had asked him to run lines with her for her role in the Christmas pantomime. He’d never enjoyed it, but at the moment her request seemed like a God-send. Making hash of a silly script would kill time and render actual conversation unnecessary. The giant elephant in the room could be shoved into a closet or behind a sofa, for the time being.

They’d been sitting together on the sofa, knees just touching, and running through the script together – the thing was mostly as inane as every Christmas pantomime Paul had ever experienced, but Jane did have an opportunity to recite a portion of _A Child’s Christmas in Wales_ , and he was happy to watch her lose herself in her craft, even as he wondered if he would ever again practice his own.

“What’s wrong, Paul, love?” Jane had interrupted herself, “did I make a mistake?”

Paul started, pulling himself out of his worries. “No,” he’d smiled briefly at her before looking away. “You did it beautifully, sweetheart, so much so I, erm… kind of got lost in it.”

Jane had narrowed her eyes a bit. “You got bored and were thinking of something else, like always,” she teased good-naturedly. “Probably thinking of new song in your head?”

“No, I assure you,” Paul said in perfect honesty, and betraying only a little bitterness, “I wasn’t thinking of a new song. Maybe driftin’ off to a memory of Wales, though.” He was about to recount a teenaged journey there with George when a knock came to the door. Not the coded entry signal devised by John Dawson, but five sharp raps in quick succession.

“Oh, that’s for me,” Jane rose quickly and went to the door.

“No!” Paul called out, jumping up after her and pulling her back. “Don’t answer that!”

“It’s just--” she began.

“Don’t answer it,” Paul hissed. “Just…don’t. It’s not the signal.”

“Paul, you’re ridiculous,” she’d shushed him, then, calling out, “Is that you, Chutley?”

“Aye, Miss, with your luggages, as promised.”

Jane had given Paul a look more victorious than sympathetic and flung open the door, permitting an older man to step in, a small suitcase in each hand. “Where shall I put them, Miss?”

“Just there is fine, Chutley, thanks.” Jane bid the man goodnight and closed the door, aware that behind her Paul had suddenly become a shuddering mess, and she had no idea what to do about that. Turning, she gave him a perfect, perfectly practiced smile. “Want some tea, love?”

Paul was back on the couch, bent over, both hands covering his head, as he tried to settle his breathing. “It’s alright. It’s not right, no,” he was muttering to himself.

Jane advanced toward him, warily, putting one hand on his shoulder. “Paul? Alright, then?” She crouched before him, feeling a little panicked at how crumbled he seemed. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

“How did he get up here,” came the ramble of an answer, the face still hidden. “No one is supposed to get up here unless he’s on the list, can’t open the door without the knock. This won’t work. How did he get up?”

“Paul…” Jane suddenly understood, and pressed a hand along his bicep. “Paul, darling, listen to me. I had told the concierge Chutley would be coming by with my bags, and to let him up. That’s all. It wasn’t a – it wasn’t a slip up. I just… I should have mentioned it earlier.”

The dark head rose. Paul met her eyes, his expression half relieved, half mortified by his near-instantaneous descent into terror. He sighed deeply. “You should have. I’m sorry. Sorry, Jane, to fly into a panic like that, but… I’m not myself, you know.”

“I know that, love,” Jane couldn’t hide the sadness in her voice as she pressed her head to his arm, unable to meet his eyes. “I _know…”_

The rest of the night had been ruined, as Paul never quite got resettled. Once he’d calmed himself a bit, he’d called down the concierge and politely requested that he be telephoned anytime anyone was coming up to the flat, on any business at all. Then he had begun to pace about the place, back and forth, like a caged animal, several times unlocking and relocking the front door until Jane finally looked up from the script she was only pretending to study and impatiently suggested he sit down at the piano and “bang out some chords or something until you feel right again, like yourself.”

She had seen, but not understood, Paul’s stricken look. She had no idea that her suggestion was more destructive than constructive, that she’d haplessly plunged both of them into one of his deepest lakes of pain: his beliefs that he had no more music inside him, and that nothing would ever be right again. All she knew was that when her boyfriend suddenly went still before her, his lips pressed together and his eyes dark as night, she felt strangely afraid of him, for the very first time.

Paul felt like he was bleeding out, like Jane had run him through with her words, and he was furious that she would dare to go there, to his music and the loss of it. _But then_ , his reason managed to squeeze in, _you’ve not shared that with her, have you? You’ve told her nothing, so how can she know what hurts?_

Hating Jane in that moment, and hating himself even more for the cowardice that kept him from letting her anywhere near his deepest wounds, Paul had found himself cast back into that night, so long ago, when he'd stood before another clueless woman and scared her with the depths and intensity of this rage -- so controlled, so deeply buried within him -- by which he would ever remain mysterious and closed to her.

He had walked over to Jane, whose eyes were huge and growing moist, and felt terrible, then, for scaring the girl. Still, he could do nothing for her. He was himself a wreck, a suffering creature so fearful, so protective of his injuries that he could only warn others away. Seeing her distress, Paul had bent down to Jane, grazing her cheek with a soft kiss. “I’m going to bed.”

When she came in later, he had pretended to be asleep, and Jane had gratefully permitted it.

And now, a night later, after another tense day wherein neither of them felt equipped to broach all the difficult questions – she had come to bed, to Paul, in the sexiest way she could have, and nothing good had come of it. No sex, no smiles, no laughter, no teasing start, no ecstatic finish. Plenty of questions, though, and few answers.

All that had been established, from the moment Jane had slung one bare leg over Paul’s lap until she had finally fallen asleep on his tear-damped shoulder, was that Paul was _terrified_ , too terrified to permit anything remotely sexual from happening. “It’s not you,” he had tried, barely cognizant of his words as he reached out to comfort her through a haze of his own flashes of memory. “It’s me, love. It’s _me_. I just… can’t.”

“You always, _always_ ,” the girl could barely breath out her words. “Sex has always been _easy_ for you. It’s always been how you’ve gotten past things.”

“I’m… this… I’m afraid… this is not just a fight, Jane, it’s not some spat to get over or some disappointment at work I can be distracted from.”

“It’s _me_ ,” Jane had wept, turning away from him. “You don’t want me anymore.”

Paul had groaned in misery at that, partly because it was true, but also because he didn’t want it to be true. He wanted to want Jane, he did. He did love her, didn’t he? When she had turned up in the white shirt, his sleeves too long for her, the buttons half undone, his initial response had been the same as ever: _What a smashing, sexy bird she is._

But that thought, that instinct, had been swallowed up -- and with almost sonic speed – by a heart-clenching flurry of fears and doubts. _Why was she doing this?_ Didn’t she realize he could never – not anymore? Was she challenging him? Was she forcing him to prove something?

He had been instantly transported to a scene that was still – in his quieter moments – causing him untold distress and self-doubt. A moment from that night – that cursed night -- where he was being held down, and harshly pulled at, and something in his own body, his own mind, his own nature, had betrayed all of the fear that was ringing inside him:

_Stopitstopitstopit._

_Look at him, shooting right up, there, hard as a rock. He’s loving it, though, he loves it._

_That’s youth for you, Cholly. Springs right up._

He’d gone hard. In the midst of being raped, of four men descending on him like a pack of wolves – eight pairs of hands reaching, pinching, smacking, tugging – he’d gone hard as granite.

_He’s loving it, though, he loves it._

The memory flew through his head like a shooting star, fast and bright but all about something dead. _He had gone hard_. Whatever else in the world was true, this was true, as well. And he didn’t know how to live with that, what it said about him. Was he some pathetic creature who was only waiting to be brutalized, only waiting to be treated like a _thing_ , like a respository, like rubbish to be tossed aside? He had been repulsed to have his mouth forced open, to hear a leering voice demand kisses and feel the press of unwanted tongues shoved deep and then replaced with unknown thrusting cocks, choking him, slamming into his vocal cords. He’d been screaming inside, screaming outside as he could until his mouth had been filled with a filthy fabric. Screaming for it to stop.

And yet _he had gone hard_. And all the denials in the world couldn’t change that fact. And he couldn’t admit it, couldn’t say the words outloud, could never tell anyone. Certainly, he could never share that it had happened with a lover, not to Jane, not even to John, because whatever would they think of him -- going hard under the hands of brutes -- when he didn’t know what to think about himself?

How could they ever love a man like that, either of them? How could they ever _trust_ his responses to them – to their tendernesses – as being real and all about them, if he could respond to those rabid animals in such a way?

How could _he_ ever trust his responses – trust them to be rightly-ordered, meant for love, for its expression? His cock was a betrayer and he’d never serve it again. Never allow it a chance to rise against him once more.

Beyond trust, how could anyone love him, when he couldn’t love himself, couldn’t forgive himself for what he could not understand in himself. When Jane had sat upon him, a huge question showing in her eyes, he should have been able to respond with something positive – appreciation, gratitude – even if he ultimately turned her down. “Jane, you’re lovely, but I’m not yet ready,” were words that could be understood, and forgiven.

But he’d not been able to manage anything so reasonable. He certainly had appreciated the girl’s allure, but gratitude never entered into it because he had so quickly sunken into memory, and then self-loathing. Clenching his eyes shut, showing his teeth, he’d startled Jane by instantly throwing her aside and jumping from the bed – “ _Stopitstopitstopit,_ ” the words coming through gritted teeth.

It had taken him too long to pull himself from the flashbacks playing in his head, too long to see how he’d frightened Jane, had left her alone and confused on the bed – a delicate nineteen year-old who had been grasping helplessly for any way to reach him, and had only been met with a terror she mistook for fury and a hatred she could only perceive as being directed at herself. It had taken him too, too long to focus on her, and his self-loathing had only grown as he had forced himself to find the words – the right words – to comfort her. He hated the words, even though they were true.

“Janey,” he had tried, getting back into the bed and pulling her toward him as she pulled resolutely away. “Janey, love. Please. It’s not you. Never think that. You’re lovely, the loveliest thing. Please. It’s me. I’m ruined, you see. I…” he gulped, trying not to say it. “Jane, I… what they’ve not destroyed in me I may have killed in myself. I’m no good for you, now, or for anyone.”

“That can’t be true, Paul,” she had sobbed, half turning his way. “It cannot be true, you’re twenty-three years old! And I’m here, and I want to… to… I want to help you.”

“You can’t help me…”

“You cannot be done, forever, Paul…”

“Sweetheart, I don’t know about forever. Right now, I don’t know about today. I don’t know about tomorrow. I just know I’m… the thought of it, of, of being that way, of letting myself feel…of even kissing you, it’s too much. And it’s not you, love, it’s not you, it’s all me. Jane…” he whispered helplessly.

“How could them hurting you make you unable to kiss me? How…” Jane finally faced him, and there she saw a man unable to hold her because every bit of himself was turned inward as he tried to hold himself together. All of her feelings for this poor, wounded boy began to overcome her own sense of failure. “Oh, Paul, look at you…” Her eyes welled with fresh tears as she reached out to him. “I’ll do anything, love, anything. I’ll be anything you need…just, please…” Her words drifted off. She had no idea what to ask of him as she realized he had nothing he could give in the moment.

“Janey,” Paul could barely form a voice, his throat tightened as he fought back tears of his own. He didn’t want to be an object of pity. He didn’t want to become the one in need of comfort when he’d just hurt her so. “I don’t know. I don’t… I don’t know if it can ever be again. With us. With anyone. Maybe sometime, some… _day_. But right now, all your love can do is… it’s just bringing it all home to me. Do you understand? Can you? Because then you’ll see it’s not you. It’s me.”

“It’s _them_ ,” Jane’s reply was suddenly defiant and firm. All of the noble blood in her veins drew out her innate sense of certainty as to who was the real enemy. “It’s _them_ , Paul, and for as long as this is how it is, they still own you. Don’t you see that, love? They still have you in their grasp. You have to fight it, fight them. That’s how you reclaim yourself. And us.”

“I can’t, yet… I’m a failure, Jane. I’m… I can’t.”

“But you must, you know.” Jane’s hands stroked Paul’s shoulder as she gentled her voice. She looked very regretful. “Maybe I was too soon with... this. I just wanted to make you feel better, but... You’ve been through so much, and it’s all still… too fresh, perhaps? Do you think, Paul?”

He nodded, his eyes averted, feeling like this was a miserable oversimplification but hoping it helped her. “Can we…” he swallowed. “Janey, can we just hold each other? Can we --”

“Of course, darling,” she interrupted.

“Can we just be friends for a little bit,” he finished. “Just… good friends who love each other? For now?” 

Jane was still for a moment, watching his eyes as a single tear escaped and made its way down his cheek. She wiped it away and made a decision, stroking his hair away from his face. “For now,” she agreed. “You really need a friend, don’t you? More than a lover?”

Paul could only nod. He suddenly looked very young, even to her own young eyes. And vulnerable beyond comprehension.

“Then I will be your friend, love. Your very _best_ friend. For now.”

And they had snuggled together, two young friends, and Jane had finally found her rest, and seemed very peaceful, even as Paul’s mind continued to wade back and forth through a swamp of memories. Of his mother and a bloody bedsheet. Of the surreal sense of silence and displacement that came with being sent away. Of a father’s grief-empowered hand upon him. Of eight hands, all over him. Of his unbearable, unconscionable reality and the mocking voice, _Look at him, shooting right up, there, hard as a rock. He’s loving it…_

But he didn’t love it, he didn’t. He'd hated every bit of it. And he was trapped there.

 _I want to die._ He thought. _I shouldn’t be allowed to live. I have nothing to give anyone._ He looked at Jane, asleep. _I have a friend. I need… I need… God, what do I need? I need a new life. I can’t live this one. I can’t live it._

The girl beside him snuffled and moved into him, one arm slung across his chest. Paul passed a hand over it fondly, almost petting her in long, stroking motions before giving a light squeeze. Janey in his shirt, a suddenly alarming sight. He closed his eyes, imagining himself taking her apart, a button at a time. Applying his lips, his tongue, here, there, everywhere, such a slow, sexy game they’d made of it.

But it hadn’t been their game first, had it?

No. His memory slipped further, until he was back in Forthlin Road, back in his small bedroom – sixteen years old and [nursing yet another injury, from another time men had used their hands on him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/46816387), kicked him bloody into a gutter, laughing at the ponce who was curled in on himself, trying to shield his head and heart from the blows of a work boot intent on doing real damage. On his bed, confused and scared and certain that he’d brought it all on himself.

And there was John, hovering over him, all concern, all regret for things he’d said, carefully undoing one button after another of Paul’s shirt, and then gently kissing each area as it showed, red, or purple, until he was fully exposed to his best friend, [groaning in pain and in surprised arousal, as Lennon kissed him there](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/46817458), licked at the soft skin just above the line of his trousers, not daring to go further. Not yet.

Not _then._

And for now? Maybe never again. No John to tease him one way. No Jane to tease another. No lips to his own mouth, no mouth to his own pleasures.

And no music to enlarge it all, or to express any of it.

_Let me just die, then._

Sleep did not come to Paul McCartney that night. In the morning, he and Jane had forced themselves to manage tea and toast – “I promised Lennon I would make you eat breakfast,” Jane had smiled at him delicately, even though he refused her offer to make porridge.

And then they had kissed each other on the cheek, and hugged each other for a long time as the lift boy waited, averting his eyes. Paul had handed in her suitcases and smiled sadly as he watched the doors close on Jane.

And then he returned to his flat and locked the door behind him, turning the deadbolt. He unlocked it all and then redid the business once more, to be certain that no one could possibly get in. 


	30. Many Things, Fools and Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a disappointing turn with Jane, Paul becomes a little pro-active with himself, deciding to cook a dinner for George and Ritchie. George, however, shows up with a surprise guest who helps Paul make a small inroad back into himself. But the evening ends with some unnoticed attention that will be most unwelcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry that it took so long to get this chapter written and published. I promise the next one -- Paul's time with John -- will come faster, and that you'll like it!

_The hands were coming at him, grabbing at him, pulling him aside, away from where he wanted to be. Steps. He was being pulled/half dragged up steps and was unable to resist, his weirdly heavy limbs unable to grab a hold of something and pull himself away from all the hands. Six hands? Eight hands. “Eight arms to hold you...” Helphelphelp!_

_Masculine hands, all about him. “Help him along then. Give a push on that lovely, meaty arse.”_

_No. Nononononono not this, I don’t want this. I don’t want to remember this. Make it go away, go away. I need to get away._

_He saw himself, pulling. He was pulling away, trying to escape… being drawn forward again, a fist making contact. Shattering. He could feel his teeth shift. Falling, falling into a gutter – a soft Liverpool drizzle all around him and a boot, a thick workboot, coming for him from a distance, connecting with a sickening thud into his solar plexus._

_All of the air in his lungs out in a whoooosh! He couldn’t take in the air. He couldn’t breathe._

_Not my head, not my hands, no, no, notmyhands, I want to play. IneedtoplayorIcan’tlive._

_He could feel his arms going around his head, his hands closed into fists, trying to shield his fingers. His body closing in on itself._

_“Faggot!” His arms taking blows meant for his head. A heavy weight on his foot, meant to turn him, meant to open him up for more abuse. He could feel the ligaments and tendons of his ankle begin to scream._

_He turned._

_The boot stomped. He could feel his ribs crack. I’mgoingtodie, I’m going to die in the gutter. Help! Oh, help me.”_

_He called out to the crowd, the blur of hair and lips and hands, of young women with contorted faces – with no idea how ugly, how terrifying they looked with their mad eyes, their wide open mouths and those pulled back lips showing all of their teeth, as though they would consume him in a bite. Hands, mouths, teeth. A mouth with bristles seizing on to his nipple and biting, hard. AmIbleeing?_

_The crowds. The hands. Hands coming at him, hands of strangers all over his body. He hated uninvited touching and they were all over him, touching him, pulling, tugging at his shoulders and tearing at him. He felt a hand trying to slip into his trousers, a small hand, but strong, urged on by some feral, psycho-sexual madness that sometimes seemed almost supernatural, to him getoffmeletgoofme. “Paul! I love you, Paul!” Getoffme, getoffme, I don’t know you, where’s Eppy, where’sMalgetthemoffme!”_

_A shirt somehow ripped from him, he could hear it tearing, even above the screams. Stranger’s hands, a cop pulling him through the hoards and shoving him into an elevator. Another hand reaching out, pulling his hair. Pulling his hair._

_“Take it all down your lovely throat, now, pretty boy.”_

_No, no, no, no, no. John! Where is John? Da! Da, help._

_The hand pulls him forward, the face before him morphs. “You fast-tongued little ponce, you’ll not use that tone with me!”[Two hard slaps. His head was spinning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/45597766). “Da, no, go to bed, you’re drunk!” The hand. The closed fist landing amid his midsection, and then another. “Talk to your queer friends on the street like that, but not your father.”_

_Hands. Tossing him about. Leaving him half naked, slumped against a hotel door._

_“John…” he felt paralyzed. The words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t move. “John…Johnny help.”_

_His own hand, closing over a bit of metal. Take the poison, yourself…_

“Paulie…” a soft voice began to pierce through the fog. “Paulie, love, wake up.” He could feel himself being shaken. “C’mon, mate, it’s a bad dream is all, wake up.”

He gasped as his eyes opened wide and he saw George before him, his eyes crinkled in concern. “George,” he panted.

“Aye, it’s only me, lad, only me.”

“I…”

“You were havin’ a nightmare, yeah?”

Paul closed his eyes, forcing himself to slow his breath. A nightmare or just memories -- the real stuff? How could he explain what madness had just flitted through his psyche at a million miles a second, like a sped-up film, like one of those uncomfortable avant-garde movies full of extreme closeups of hands and teeth and eyes and fists that no one understands but everyone praises.

 _I understand it_ , he thought to himself. _But I can’t praise it_.

George was patting his back in a manner Paul imagined he’d learned from Louise Harrison – light taps, little circles. A silent reassuring note of presence. “Alright, Macca?”

He nodded, reaching out and taking Geo’s other hand. “Aye. I’m sorry.”

“Nothin’ for that, son. Can I get you anything? Some water? Scotch?”

“Nay, thanks, Georgie. I’m just… I’m sorry I woke you.”

“T’cha,” Harrison snorted. “I’m just sorry I’m not John, for you.”

Paul gave him a quizzical look. “John?”

“It’s himself you were callin’ out to, wasn’t it?” The younger man brushed Paul’s sweaty fringe back from his face with that same parental touch still at his back. “But you’re stuck w’me, aye? Poor sub that I am.”

“I don’t remember callin’ out for anyone,” Paul said, reclaiming George’s hand into his own and giving it a squeeze. “But you’re a fine sub for John, and all. I’m glad you’re here.” Without thinking, he let his head slip on to the shoulder of his childhood friend. “Thanks, Georgie, for waking me up. Pulled me out of a true hell. You don't even know...”

“I’m glad if I did,” George murmured, the arm at Paul’s back now pulling him into a hug. “I wish I could snap my fingers and pull the memories of that night from you, Paulie.”

“Not _just_ that night,” Paul sighed.

“No?” George raised his head, looking at him for a moment, and then pulled him back into the hug, and for a while neither spoke. George wondered if Paul would ever be himself again, and rushed to repress the million questions that quickly formed behind that one. Paul, mean while was busy beating back the memory of hands, of mad eyes. So many. And his father, too. Hard hands, quickly to rise in fury. Eyes mad with grief.

“Georgie?”

“Aye, mate?”

“Could you… would you…”

“Need a ciggie, then?”

“Actually…” Paul found he was suddenly dying for one but, “yeah. But we pretty much smoked our lungs black tonight, didn’t we? I just wondered…” Suddenly he was both hesitant and rushing his words, “you can say ‘no’ if you want…”

“Just say what you need, Paul.”

“Could you… would you sleep with me, tonight? I just… I don’t want to go back there.”

“Is that all?” George gave him a shove. “Move aside then, you daft git. We’ve never slept together in so large a bed! This is luxury!”

Paul gave a small chuckle. “That’s true enough. There’s room for Ritchie and John in here, too.”

“Beats sandwichin’ ourselves in the back of a freezin’ cold van, doesn’t it?” George slipped in beneath the covers and fluffed a pillow, smiling as he settled in. “Ah, the old smell of McCartney. Tobacco and leather and salt and scotch. How many nights have I fallen asleep with that combination in me nostrils?”

"And me smellin' your latest meal all over you." Paul smiled back. “Probably too much drink tonight, gave me the bad dreams, yeah?”

“Aye, I reckon. We did get away with a flock of liquor. But did you enjoy yourself? Tonight?”

“I did.” He could feel the corners of his lips rise at the memory of a surprising evening. “I was sorry Ritchie wasn’t there, but your friend was alright.”

“He’s a good man, that,” George agreed.

“Never saw a priest drink like that before,” Paul marveled. “And the mouth on him!”

George outright giggled. “Aye, he’s a right scandal, but in a good way. And I was proud of you, leavin’ the flat to help get him into the taxi with me.”

“You mean _pour_ him into the taxi,” Paul corrected. “I never knew I needed to load a foul-mouthed, laughing drunk of a priest into a cab until it happened. Felt very satisfying. Richie bein’ here would have made it perfect.”

The two young men settled in more deeply, both of them pondering the evening they’d just passed.

Paul, who’d spent his morning brooding on all the ways his nights with Jane had been so disastrous -- had raised so many doubts in his mind about so many things -- realized he needed to do something, anything, to engage his mind. He decided that he’d cook for George and Ritchie – nothing fancy, just simple Liverpudlian fare that would set them on familiar footings. After taking an inventory of his bare pantry, he had called Brian’s office for help. “Eileen, love, could you put an order in to market? Get some groceries delivered to me here, aye? They can be left with the concierge here?”

The older woman, a longtime Epstein employee who’d left the NEMS offices up north for London, had been thoughtful about what Paul could use, not just for an evening, but for a solid week, and a few hours later the concierge and lift boy had brought sandwich meats, milk, beans, bread, tinned fish, assorted fruits and cereals and cokes and beers and even some sweets and cakes to his door. He’d called George and told him “don’t bring dinner,” as everyone else had. “Bring booze, yeah? And ciggies?”

George had been fine with that plan. “Richie’s boy is sick, though, with a fever, so he’s not coming. But make a lot!”

“Sure, I know your appetite, mate,” Paul had chuckled.

He had set about creating a simple meal – beans and toast and slices of ham, with a salad of shredded cabbage and carrots. As he moved about the kitchen Paul found that he was enjoying being active, calling up old skills that had been learned after his mother’s death -- when he had become the chief cook and housekeeper at 20 Forthlin Road and was often teased by George (and later John), for the apron he would wear as he dusted and mopped. “Just shurrup,” he’d always responded. “See how long your clothes last when you’re cookin’ and sloppin the loo in them!”

He had used a tea towel for an apron this day, and was still wearing it as he, with no small measure of pride, put the finishing touches to the dining room table (he’d puckishly decided to use the fine china, tablecloth and napkins to serve his humble meal) when George had bellowed through the door. “ _Oi_ , Macca, got arms full of drink, here and forgot the knock, anyway.”

When Paul opened the door he found Harrison nearly sinking under the weight of a box full of bottles – scotch, gin, Irish whisky – and assorted mixers. Beside him, grinning at him like a strange pixie dressed all in black, was a pale young priest wearing an Irish cap, with two cartons of cigarettes tucked under each arm.

“This is Sean,” George announced, tossing his head toward the priest as he lumbered in and permitted Paul to point him to the bar.

“I’ve brought momentary pleasure and eventual pain disguised as innocence, into this house,” the priest smiled, handing the cartons to Macca. “And, also these ciggies. God bless all here.”

Paul had frankly stared at the man for a moment, then turned to George.

“S’my friend, Sean,” George explained with a shrug as he cracked open bottles of scotch and coke and began mixing. “Brought him to eat Ritchie’s share, yeah?”

“You’re very welcome,” Paul managed, his formality betraying both his surprise and his discomfort. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise, and once again,” the priest smiled, handing off his hat and coat to his host. “Glad to see you lookin’ so much the better, lad.”

Paul gave a little tilt of the head, squinting a bit at the little man’s remarks. “I’m sorry, have we met before?”

“Not so’s you’d know it, Macca. Fr. Sean [gave you Last Rites](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/54312490), you know?”

“I had Last Rites?” This was news to Paul, and his eyebrows were up over it. “When was this?”

“Within the hour you were brought to hospital, weren’t it,” George asked the priest as he handed him a whiskey, neat.

“Aye, as soon as they called me over, and Georgie here assisted along with yer friend John. Tried to pass as a papist, that one did, but I sussed him out, you know.”

Paul’s eyes widened as he regarded his mate. “Is that right?”

“Well, you’d scared the bejesus out of us, after all,” George added.

“Aye, so I put a little be-Jesus back into you.” Both men had a laugh on that, as Paul continued to shake his head. Clearly, his bandmate had bonded with this fellow, and Paul felt a little like an outsider until Georgie passed him a drink of his own, coke and scotch.

The priest shot both of them a look of disdain. “A way to ruin a fine spirit, that.”

George had reached over and whipped the tea towel from Paul’s hips at that point. “Cor, still with the apron, are you? I’m starvin’ by the way, so when do we eat?”

Supper had been brilliant, permitting Paul to feel like he had finally managed to succeed at something – a sense he’d not had in nearly a month. Both of his guests seemed genuinely delighted to sit down to a repast of simple childhood fare. “Toast and beans and ham!” Fr. Sean declared as he chewed away happily, “All we need is the buttermilk and I’m back on the farm!”

“I didn’t quite feel up to bangers and mash, yet,” Paul had blushed at the praise. “That’s my speciality.”

“You’ll have to invite me over when you’re able to pull that together, then, boyo,” the priest had breathed washing a mouthful down with a gulp of whisky. “The old man is English and he likes his stringy roasts and tough chops. Bangers and mash sounds like heaven.”

“That’d be his boss,” George declared to the table with a rueful grin as he stabbed at the last two pieces of ham. 

Paul had swallowed the last of his own drink and leaned back in his chair, glad to see the two men leaving no leftovers. Still, he had begun to gnaw at his thumb as he frowned at the younger man. “Sorry, Geo, still getting’ used to you bein’ so friendly with a priest. No offense, Father,” he added quickly.

“None taken, none taken, lad,” he was quickly reassured. “Almost no one wants to be friends with a priest. But, I’m a good singer, you see,” Fr. Sean replied as he rose and went straight to the bar, pouring himself another whisky. “Can I do either of you boys?” As they nodded he prepared their second drinks of the night, telling the story as he poured and mixed. “It’s that [we sang together for you outside your surgery](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/55013704) and formed a sort of bond, then. That’s when I realized that Georgie here was his own manner of priest, and he decided I’d passed the audition and could be his friend.”

“Voice like a fuckin’ angel, Paulie, love. You should hear him. Second only to yourself, you know.” 

“Aye, but I only know Latin hymns and dirty limericks, and all. But _tuneful_ ones.”

Both Beatles laughed and Paul began to relax a bit, asking. “Do you know this one, then?

_There once was a lady from Norway  
Who stood every night at a doorway  
When a man said ‘how much’  
She’d say ‘thruppence a touch’  
Half a crown for a spank if that’s your way.”  
_

He found himself blushing at the table’s ready approval. “That’s the…the cleanest one I know, sorry.”

That effort began a limerick challenge between the three men that lasted throughout the cleanup, each poem getting raunchier in succession until Father Sean announced that there was a line even he wouldn’t cross. “That’s a fine piano, you’ve there, lad,” he observed as they’d settled in for a night of drink and talk.

“It’s not mine,” Paul rushed to answer. “Nothing in this place is mine, really. It’s a sublet.”

“But surely you’re able to play the thing,” the priest frowned, “while you’re keeping?”

“Aye, Paulie, play something,” George had encouraged him. “It’s startin’ to feel like Liddypool here, with the grub and whiskey an’ all. Bang out a few of the old Forthlin Road tunes for us, then.”

The request was innocently made, but it took everything Paul had in him to not betray the panic he felt at the idea. He had played not a bar of music since morning of that horrific day. Even alone in the flat, his guitar case remained shut, the piano resolutely closed. When he thought of playing, a strange tension would ring out from his belly, a roiling sense of sickness that repelled him away from either instrument.

He had no more music in him, he was certain of it, and the knowing had been pulling him down, day after day, leaving him feeling fully bereft of himself. It seemed to emphasize how utterly and completely he had lost all of himself to the hands of that perverted bastard, Cholly, and his unknown friends, leaving him feeling so strangely not himself.

He had gone from being a gregarious, active man to a shut-in; a highly sexual man to one who couldn’t bear the possibility of his own arousal; a music-haunted man who, at this moment, was looking with a combination of longing and dread at the glossy instrument he dared not approach. _If I sit there and cannot play, I might as well just die and be done_ , he thought. _That will be the absolute end._

“Bang out a few old tunes,” George had said, as though it was so easy.

_But then, it always had been, before._

Now, Paul imagined himself taking a seat at the bench, only to find himself unable to do more than that, literally banging about, madly, tunelessly, furious but unable to form a chord, or find a rhythm, or tap into one of those surprising melodies that used to bubble up from him as though from a deep and secret stream only he could reach.

“Paul?” George was nudging. “How ‘bout it? Give us a song, yeah?”

He looked at his mate, mouth dropping open a bit, as though he was incapable of forming the words “yes” or “no”.

“I’m…I’m a bit pissed,” he stammered. “Not sure I can.”

“Cor, I’ve seen you three sheets to the wind and barrelin’ out sea chanties [while sitting there wet and stark naked](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21587524), son. Pretty sure you can –”

“Don’t pester the lad, Georgie,” Father Sean stood up. “If you don’t mind, I’ve ne’er played so fine a one.” He smiled down at his host whose eyes were huge with anxiety. “May I have a go?”

Paul’s lips moved, but no word came forth as he nodded. “S’fine,” he eventually managed.

And with that the priest seated himself and began a gentle assessment of the instrument, trying out major and minor chords and the pedals, and then playing a few bars of Gerswhin’s _Rhapsody in Blue_. He had a light touch on the keys and Paul immediately recognized the man’s natural musicianship.

“What’ll it be, lads? A bit early in the night to go too blue, eh?”

“ _The Calton Weaver_ ,” George piped up, and they both immediately broke into lively song.

_I am a weaver, a Calton weaver  
I am a brash and a roving blade  
I have silver in my pouches  
And I follow a roving trade  
O Whiskey, whiskey, Nancy whiskey  
Whiskey, whiskey, Nancy O_

George was right, Paul decided. Fr. Sean had a fine tenor voice, clear as crystal, lively and lithe. He fondly watched as his bandmate stood beside the piano, rapping out a Celtic beat upon it with his knuckles and bellowing out on the chorus.

_O Whiskey, whiskey, Nancy whiskey,  
Whiskey, whiskey Nancy O!  
_

Smiling despite himself, Paul refilled their tumblers, all with the straight whiskey, now, and handed them out and then – ever the mindful housekeeper -- ran to get coasters the first time Georgie spilled.

After a second song – a lovely turn at _On the Raglan Road_ , Hazza singing solo to Sean’s accompaniment -- they moved on to _The Wild Rover_ , and suddenly Paul found himself unable to resist joining in for the second chorus, falling naturally into the high harmony as George smiled and put an arm ‘round his shoulders.

It felt good.

So _good_.

It felt unbelievably good to sing with his oldest mate and to hear how seamlessly their voices blended, like family voices – like brothers who knew how to cover each other’s breath, rising and falling together to create and release something simple and beautiful. 

By the time the song ended, the two lads were singing to each other and smiling, eyes shining with the recognition -- the rediscovery, for Paul -- that yes, singing together, making music together, this had always been what they were meant to do!

Had he been alone, Macca felt like he’d have wept with relief to know he could manage a song. At least he had that. They would have been good tears, too, light tears, coming from a suddenly lightened heart.

“Sit down, sit down beside me, lad,” Fr. Sean encouraged him. “What do you like?”

Paul sat, his hands still avoiding the keyboard. “What do _you_ like, Father?”

“Call me Sean, please.”

“I dunno if I can,” Paul objected, taking a heavy gulp of whiskey, “all me early trainin’ you know.”

“ _Try_ , do you,” the priest laughed, lifting his own glass. “Hearin' me name reminds me I’m human. My own favorite? Alright, but it’s a fast one, so see if you boys can keep up!” With that he broke into rapid rendition of _The Rocky Road to Dublin_.

And no, they couldn’t keep up. They likely never could have, even on their best days but now, thoroughly oiled as they were, the fast syllables tripping so brilliantly from the priest’s lips were leaving Paul and George tongue-tied, both of them giggling with the effort, and moaning as the tempo picked up for the last verse.

“Fuck!” George let out, “should’ve been able to handle at least the Liddypool verse. You cheated!” Father Sean cackled, holding his sides as the aggravated young man slurred at him. “A fine priest you are, screwing with the tempo an’ all! Probably steal from the orphan’s fund, too, you do!”

Observing the condition they were all in, Paul quietly padded into the kitchen while the two men played at arguing. He returned bearing a tray of stout mugs all filled with strong, black coffee. Hazza was on the couch, blearily watching Sean noodle at the keyboard and gratefully accepting a mug. Replacing the glass on the piano, Paul saw the priest shake his head. “None of that, now, son, unless you’ve got a bit of the creature to flavor it up, aye?”

“I thank ye,” Sean murmured with a smile after a fluid ounce of whiskey had been added to the brew. “I think yer mate’s all a-done for now. Sit beside me, then, would you?”

Paul obeyed, sipping at his own cup with care.

“What do you like?” The priest was repeating his question from earlier. “I don’t know much rock and roll, but I’m very fond of the bluesy stuff.”

“I liked the Gershwin you were playin’ earlier,” Paul nodded. “Can you do that?”

“Sadly, no, not without the sheet music; I’d fall apart halfway through.”

“Oh, you’re trained, then?”

The two men spoke companionably for the next hour, of simple things -- music and mothers, mostly -- the priest’s hands never leaving the keyboard as he explored chords and broke off in the direction of one melody after another as the spirit moved. “I’m very fond of the American songbook, you know,” he said. “For me there’s nothing lovelier than those songs. Thirty-two bars of absolute perfection. _‘I’ll be seeing you’,_ ” he suddenly began to sing, _“‘in all the old familiar places, that this heart of mine embraces…’_ ”

“I like that one, too,” Paul offered. “John and I --” he paused for a moment, measuring his words. “John used to get me to play it for him, sometimes, and sing it. That and _T'il There Was You_." Paul smiled at a sudden memory. "One night in Hamburg he was feeling especially off and had me sing that one, _T'il There Was You_ over and over, practically on the hour, until the boss told him to stop it. He’d get into a mood, you know,” he rushed to explain, “where he’d be missin’ his mum. We’d both be missin’ them.”

“Well let’s hear it, then,” Sean gestured to the keyboard. "This one, _I'll Be Seeing You..._ "

“Naw, I couldn’t. Can’t remember it all, can I?”

“Alright…” Puzzled at the younger man’s reticence, he took up the chords. “But you can sing it, yeah? It’s so lovely. Come on, with me.”

_I’ll be seeing you  
In every lovely summer’s day  
_

Paul nodded as though to himself, and began to join in, very softly and tentatively.

_In everything that’s light and gay  
I’ll always think of you that way  
_

“Aye,” the priest encouraged, nodding as Paul put a bit of power behind it as he managed to flow into the lyrics he and John both loved so well.

_I’ll find you in the morning sun  
And when the day is new  
I’ll be looking at the moon,  
But I’ll be seeing you…  
_

Macca lingered, carrying the last notes through Sean’s lithe playing and discreetly wiping at his eyes. Yeah, he could still _sing_. He could sing something that had real meaning for him, and for John. Meaning -- if he was being honest -- that went beyond missing their mothers and brought them right into [their time alone, in Paris.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119496)

_Meaning, aye, all of that._

“Ah, that’s grand, son,” Sean murmured. “And aye, it’s a little sad, yeah, a wistful song, so much loss and longing in it?”

Paul simply nodded his head, sniffling a little.

“And you’re still feeling very sad too, then, aren’t you? Feeling a bit lost.”  
  
It was not a question, but a statement, and offered so gently that Paul couldn’t deny it. He could only sigh deeply as he stared at the keyboard, one finger sliding over the keys, black to white to black, without ever pressing down. “I just... I don't..." A little groan escaped from him as he admitted it. "I feel like I don’t know myself, now,” he whispered, finally.

“Understandable,” the priest said, just as quietly. “You must feel like something of your very essence has been stolen from you, and you don’t know where to find it, or even how to begin to search.”

"Aye, that's it". Paul nodded again, daring to look up. The deep compassion he saw in Father Sean’s eyes was so genuine that it made him look away, again. It felt safer to look down at the piano keys. Less naked-like.

“But it’s still there, in you, you know,” Sean continued, “You are still there. The essential you, the gifted you -- that's all still there; it's just deeper. Just buried under a lot of feelings, mostly some fears – and very valid they are – that you need to sift through, over time, when you feel up to it. But you must have felt it a little bit tonight, yeah? That essential McCartney beneath it all? I saw the look of you while you were singing with young Georgie. You found yourself for a few minutes, there, didn’t you?”

Paul nodded again, not trusting his words. He felt oddly bashful, and as inarticulate as a five year-old to own something so important to a man who was, in fact, still mostly a stranger to him. “For a bit, aye. A _little_.”

“A little is enough,” Sean encouraged. “Hang on to that, and have some trust in it -- that if there is a _little_ still accessible to you, then the whole of it, the whole of _yourself_ , is there, just lyin’ beneath the wreckage of all you’ve just gone through. And it wants to be found as much as you want to find it.” He chuckled a little as he watched Paul process that, raising his round, wounded eyes once again, his expression wondering.

“John has said something like that, you know…”

“Hm?”

“He said…” Macca frowned as he looked for the exact words. “He said that even a little of me is myself, entire.”

“ _Well_ ,” Father Sean smiled as his continued to glide softly over the piano keys, “he’s quite right. I guess he really is the smart one, after all, aye? Not bad for a man who can’t sign a cross without tangling up his arms.”

Paul chuckled at the image, feeling a surge of warmth for John as he pictured it, and realizing that he missed his partner very much. “Did he really do that?”

“Make a balls of it when he assisted your anointing? Indeed.”

Paul watched the priest’s hands as he finished his coffee. “By the way, thank you for that. For the anointing, I mean.”

“S’my job, innit? Always happy to help. Believe it did you good, and all.”

“I nearly died, you know,” the younger man suddenly confided in a shy voice. He sounded almost wistful. “I could tell I was goin’ a few times. Saw my mum. Haven’t told anyone – any of the lads. Wouldn’t have been so bad to die. I’d have been alright with it.”

“And yet, apparently the world and its author weren’t having it.” Sean stopped playing, swallowing the last of his spiked coffee and lighting a cigarette. “Something to think about, lad, isn’t it? You were in as grave a condition as I’ve ever seen, and yet here you are, with roses in your cheeks, whiskey in your belly, and that pretty voice intact. If God had meant to have you, you’d be food for the fuckin’ worms by now, and the earth groaning with the weight of a billion stranger’s tears, to boot. Instead, here you are.”

“Aye, here I am, but for what,” Paul agreed, a touch of bitterness to his voice. “Half a man, scared to death. I wanted to go, you know,” he insisted, turning to face the priest. “ I wanted to. And yet, I’m here. And _why?”_

"To have your life, son. To claim it -- the one you're meant to live and really want, for yourself."

"What if I don't know what that _is_ , anymore." There was real anguish in the question.

“Sheesh, there’s a million songs can be written askin’ all that for the rest of your life, yeah? You’re an artist. You’ve been given the means of explorin’ it. Whether you have the courage to do so…. That’s up to you, innit? Seems to me you’re meant to work with what you’ve got. And you're a lad with plenty of acumen.” He handed his mug over. “Do me another, would you? A bit of sugar with the whiskey this time, eh, like a right toddy? Keep out the cold as I leave?”

Paul took the mug, a trace of amusement in his eyes. “Would you like a little _coffee_ with your whiskey and sugar?”

A sigh. “If you must…”

“How much can you hold, anyway?”

Father Sean started plunking away at the piano again. “Ah, lad… you don’t want to know…”

Returning with his drink, Paul recognized the tune being played – a haunting an, strange melody full of minor chords, suiting the cryptic lyrics. “I know that one,” he said, retaking his seat.

“Do you?” Sean asked. “You put me in mind of it just now with them big sad eyes of yours, aye. ‘ _There was a boy_ ,’” he sang. “‘ _A very strange, enchanted boy…_

_They say he wandered very far, very far,  
over land and sea.  
A little shy, and sad of eye  
But very wise was he...”  
_

“Too bad I’m not wise, though...”

“Kindly just shut up and sing it, Paul, yeah? "‘ _And then one day…_  
 _A lucky day he passed my way…’_

The priest stopped to take a drag of his cigarette, forcing Paul to take up the verse.

“‘ _And then we spoke of many things’_ ”, he sang out sweetly,

_‘Fools and kings  
Then he said to me:’”  
_

After a full gulp of mostly-whiskey, Father Sean came back in, smiling as his eyes met Paul’s as they sang together.

_The greatest thing you’ll ever learn  
Is just to love, and be loved  
In return  
_

Against every fear he’d been holding on to, Paul raised his hands to the keyboard, managing a bit of interesting counterpoint to the priest’s mode. He closed his eyes with a sigh at the final chord, holding them tightly shut against an itchy threat of tears, as the vibrations faded out, feeling as though they’d moved right through him.

“Aye, and how true and fine is that, then, son,” he heard Sean murmur. “ _That’s_ your answer.”

“Jesus Christ,” George’s bleary voice called from the couch, “Why don’t you two go off somewhere together and snuggle, already.”

“Alright, there, Georgie,” the priest called out.

“Fuck off! I’ve a headache.”

“There’s my warrior.”

“He’s never been the best drinker,” Paul chuckled.

“Well, we should call it a night,” Father Sean said. He moved to close the piano and then cast a look at the young man beside him and left it open. Hauling himself to a stand, he quickly sat back down with a _whoops_ and laughing at himself. “And perhaps you’d be so kind as to call me a cab, then, because maybe that last drink was the line, and I’ve crossed it.”

From the couch came a boom of laughter. “He’s never been the best drinker! What kind of Irishman is that, then, who can’t stand up for fallin’ down after a few drinks?”

Paul had called down to the concierge, requesting a taxi. When he returned, he found George doing a less-than-graceful job of helping the priest into his coat. “Oh, wait, wait, wait,” Father Sean stopped him. “I’ve nearly forgot. Have a present for you, son!”

“Aw, that’s nice o’ you,” George started.

“Not you,” the priest pushed off the hug coming his way. “The other one. _Paulie_. Paulie, c’mere, lad.”

“I’m right here, beside you,” Macca laughed.

“Aye…aye… just… let me find it.” He was digging a hand deeply, and inexactly, into his trouser pocket.

“There are about a thousand filthy dirty jokes I could make about you and tha’ hand you’re digging about with,” George teased. “But I know you for a good feller, so I’ll not.”

“Ah, shut up, ye stinkin’ drunkard, you. Here it is. Here, I’ve got it.” He faced Paul, deliberately standing as erect as he was able and taking on a solemn tone. “James Paul.”

“That’s me,” Macca smiled.

“No. James Paul Mc-McCartney.” He held something small and bronze between his two fingers and then took Paul’s hand, laying it on his palm. “This. James Paul McCartney, I present you with this.”

“Well, thank you,” Paul peered at the round disk. “What is it?”

“It’s a special thing. You wear it round your neck, or if you don’t want that, just keep it always on your person.” The priest wobbled a bit and tapped the thing three times for emphasis. “It’s a properly blessed Jubilee Medal of St. Benedict, and that makes it a powerful sacramental.”

“What’s a sacramental?” George asked.

“Hesh, sheesh, quiet down, ye heathen!” He shushed his friend before saying quietly to Paul, “You keep this on your person, boyo. It’s a sacramental of healing, because you need healing, and it’s a sacramental of exorcism, too.”

“Are you sayin’ it’s because he’s evil, then,” George challenged him, none too steady on his feet, either. “Because tha’s not right. Paulie is good.”

“Jesus, he really is a miserable bastard when he drinks, isn’t he?” Sean directed the question to his host, who was enjoying it all immensely. “It’s not because you’re evil, son. As the Greek chorus behind me so aptly put it, _you’re good_. It’s a good lad, you are. It’s to keep evil away from you, you see. A bit of protection from the bad old world. Lookit, there?” He peered into Paul’s palm, tapping again at the medal. “That’s all Latin, there. All the letters and the words about ‘em. Tells the devil to drink the poison himself – turns the evil back on thems that would do evil.”

“Oi, what’s it say, then, Macca,” George asked, “you’re the Latin scholar.” 

“Fuck if I can tell. The words are little and I’m a bit pissed, myself.”

“Well, I’m a lot pissed and I’ll tell you!” Farther Sean roared out the words, as though he was chasing out ghosts. “ _Vade retro Satana!_ ”

A buzz sounded near the door, and Paul answered while the priest loudly continued to pronounce in Latin in the background. _“Numquam suade mihi vana!”_

“Mr. McCartney, sir, your taxi is here.”

_“Sunt mala quae libas!”_

“I thank you. Say we’ll be right down, aye?”

_“IPSE VENENA BIBAS!”_

“You're very right,” Paul agreed with the priest, taking his arm, “ _Ipse venena bibas_ is just the thing. No poison for me! Georgie, can you get him down the cab?”

“Sure,” George wavered before him. “I’ll do it.”

“That was a very fine piano, son, and you’ve a grand voice, and I thank you for yer hosp-hopicatality.” Father Sean gave a salute with a brilliant grin.

“Ah, you’re very welcome, Father. Thanks for the medal.” Paul pocketed it and re-assessed George’s condition, deciding. “Let’s all go down to the cab, aye?”

It was a fairly jolly trio that greeted the lift boy and loudly thanked the concierge for his help before finally depositing a clingy Fr. Sean Flynn into the taxi and waving him off.

“D’ye know where he’s goin’?”

“Have no idea. I hope he gets there,” George answered, swaying a bit. "An' I hope he doesn't puke before he does."

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Paul decided, giving his mate a pat on the back. “Freaking cold out here, yeah?”

“Aye. Let’s have tea!”

The two of them headed back up to Paul’s apartment, quite unconcerned about the camera clicks they’d been too busy, and too loud, to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can hear Nat King Cole sing _Nature Boy_ [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iq0XJCJ1Srw)  
> Other songs mentioned in this piece:  
> [Calton Weaver](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wufMB2bhHkE)  
> [On the Raglan Road](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dobte0rRKUA)  
> [The Wild Rover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_jgd07Ica5s)  
> [The Rocky Road to Dublin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jxBKgOyMzSc)  
> [I'll Be Seeing You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=opLWqBMjJ4c)  
> [Til There Was You (Isolated vocal)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eyVPk8gSVTw)  
> [Rhapsody in Blue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7-MJZJjJs4A)


	31. Safely Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The papers have let the cat our of the bag, and all of London now knows where to find Paul McCartney, who is being kept ignorant of that fact until John arrives. But the building personnel know it, and are already fending off fans and strangers. 
> 
> John and Paul flirt on the phone and George enjoys watching Paul blush as he tries to hide his excitement when John's gift arrives, and then -- finally -- John is there, with Paul in his flat, and the hug goes on and on. "Paul...", "Johnny, my Love..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like it. This chapter is a bit shorter than most. There are plenty of indications that things are going to become difficult, very soon. But right now they are together. Next chapter will be much longer, and it will be all JohnandPaul, and PaulandJohn -- the two men finally getting to simply be together, with perhaps a little bit of John Dawson in the mix.

Beatle-connected phone lines were buzzing all over London and its suburbs, beginning at 5:30 AM, when an early-rising John Dawson, still in his robe and relaxing with the morning paper, turned the page. He normally ignored the gossip section, having dealt with too many celebrities to find it remotely interesting, but this time the main photo could not help but catch his eye.

There were Paul McCartney and George Harrison both looking the better, or worse, for drink, leaning against each other and laughing as they waved off into the distance. He would have smiled at the sight – good to see Paul laughing, after all – were it not for the caption:

_In a rare sighting, Beatle Paul McCartney is seen here with bandmate George Harrison, both looking in fine fettle as they wave off a friend. McCartney, who has not been seen in public for nearly a month since sustaining a serious head injury in a bathing mishap, appeared in perfect health as the two men headed back into the exclusive Wybourne Towers in Belgravia where, according to a source, the lately reclusive McCartney has taken up residence._

_Shit. Why not draw them a map_ , Dawson fumed, immediately picking up the phone and calling Brian Epstein and then, immediately after, John Lennon who – on Dawson’s advice – called Paul’s apartment, hoping George would answer.

No such luck, of course. George was notoriously lazy and slow to rise, so it was Paul who picked up the phone on its second ring. John could hear him putting about the kitchen, filling a tea kettle and otherwise preparing breakfast.

“John, love!” Paul sounded excited to hear his voice. “It’s so good to hear you. Why are you calling so early? I can’t believe you’re even awake yet. Oh no,” Paul’s voice lowered. “You’re not calling to say you’re cancelling, are you? Please don’t.” John could hear him sigh and take a seat as his voice lowered even more, sounding urgent and also impossibly sexy. “I’ve been missing you so much, love. Counting the hours 'til I see you, I am.”

John felt his heart stir at hearing it. He’d been feeling barely human with Paul so occupied, first with his father and brother, then with Jane, Dawson, Georgie and Ritch. It had been fine to spend time with Cyn and Julian, and the family had passed a few genuinely pleasant days – John felt like he owed Cynthia his best, after the way she’d been there for him and Paul during the worst of it -- but he’d found himself increasingly restless as days passed into weeks. The nights, especially, were hard. He would leave the bed he shared with Cynthia and pace about the house, smoking, wanting to ring up Paul but knowing it would only create questions for him in the morning, with his family or with Jane, or even with Georgie and Ritchie.

 _We need to tell them_ , he would think, feeling desperately trapped. _When Paul is better and things settle down, we need to tell them that we are a couple_.

A couple. Whatever that meant, anymore, with poor Paul so… afraid. So damaged. What that all meant for John made him afraid, too, and so working off anxious energy, John would sit doodling cartoons and scenes that would always become studies of Paul, and then of Paul and him, and then of Paul and him playing guitars, or kissing, or wanking each other off, or simply snuggling together on beds and couches and beaches – images he would always end up burning or tearing into little bits so no one, especially not Cyn, would ever see.

He was so tired of this hidden way. Tired of deceiving people he cared about, tired of taking out his frustrations on them when all he really wanted to was be the person he felt was his authentic self -- the person he would introduce himself as, if he had his way: _Hello, I’m John Lennon, the Other Half of Paul, have you met my husband, by the way? Yes? Well, then you know_.

 _Paul. My husband. Paul. My Lover_.

Among the doodles he’d destroyed were the sorts of lovesick things teenage girls might write out over and over again, imagining name combinations that implied permanence and forever. _John Lennon McCartney_. _John McCartney Lennon. John-Paul Lennon_. He played with an idea of creating an entire new name for them to share: McCartlen. He rather liked that one. _Merry Christmas, love, John and Paul McCartlen_. Or McLennon! There now, that was a one. _Wish you were here! John McLennon_. Sweet as a whistle and neat as wax, that was. He loved the sound of it. _Thank you for your good wishes, The McLennon’s_! _James Paul McLennon. My husband. My Jamie._

He gulped now, shoving that thought to the side. “I love hearing that you’ve missed me, babe. I’ve missed you too. More than you know.”

“What time will you be here, then?” The men slipped into the sort of low-registered, sweet tones they used when they were alone together and being intimate. “Why not come now? Have breakfast with Georgie and me. Then he might leave sooner?”

“Why has his company gone sour so early,” John teased. “You need me there to mediate between you two rough Speke boys?”

“Naw,” Paul smiled into the receiver. “I just miss you, is all. I love Georgie, you know that. I just love you more.”

John felt himself settle into that peaceful, easy place only Paul had ever been able to bring him to. He smiled as well. “When I see you, be ready. I’m going to come through your door and just hug you and hug you. I need to feel you in my arms, love.” 

“I’m going to hug you more…”

They both sat there for a moment, only silence between them as they each imagined the moment, the hug. The feeling of being together. _Safely home_.

Just imagining it made it feel so very real.

 _Baby, I love you so much_. The words were on the tip of his tongue. In this moment of longing, John wanted to say them, but refrained. Just the thought brought a tingle to his groin. To say them meant that they were together, that Paul was loving on him, or he was touching and kissing Paul and they were rolling about a bed, or sliding off a couch, laughing together and stirring each other’s bodies along with their blood.

He knew better than to go there, to even entertain the notion just now, because he would never want to scare Paul.

And God, he so _wanted_ him -- had lately spent so much of the sexual energy meant for his Paul into his Cynthia (which was wrong – he knew it was wrong, but so long as Cyn didn’t know… right)? He’d whacked off in shower after shower to the memory of Paul above him, Paul beneath him, Paul inside him, Paul, running his calloused fingers all over him, making him shiver. Paul, so content to be oral, to spend long bits of time just kissing him, everywhere, licking and biting him in those small, secret ways that only the two of them would ever understand. “There you are,” Paul would whisper after leaving a small bruise on his inner thigh in just that spot, that spot no one else in the world knew would drive John mad and render him hard as granite in mere seconds.

Paul, gently stroking the backs of John’s thighs, which turned him into a powerless, malleable mush.

Paul, pounding a perfect rhythm into John, and making that sound, that filthy, deep moan as he urged John to let go, “For me, baby, all for me. Let me see you, baby boy,” and then, finally, once John had utterly fallen apart, Paul would let himself finish, spilling into his partner with a growl and a loving nip to his neck or his chest. And John would feel reassuringly possessed. _Claimed_. Owned and cared for in a way he had never felt, before. Wholly wanted. Unconditionally, and all the time.

He let those thoughts come forward but did not permit his own hand to reach between his legs for a little tug of relief. _Paul is too fragile. I will be strong_. But the ache was there, so strong he could barely speak. “Baby,” he choked out. “I’ll see in this afternoon and we’ll have lots of time together.”

“Will you bring me flowers?” Paul had asked the question softly, flirtatiously.

John laughed out loud. “No. Can’t be seen bringing you roses, now, can I, you little fruit!”

Paul laughed as well and the tension, that crackling sexual tension that had nearly unnerved John, seemed to break. “Bring me a fruit basket, then,” Paul said.

“Speaking of fruit baskets, is Hazza around yet? I wanted to ask him something.”

“He’s still sleepin’. Tell me what you want and I’ll make sure to ask for you.”

“No, wake the lazy bastard up. I’m trying to remember something he told me, and why should I wait?”

Paul made his way down the hall and tapped on the doorjamb of the bedroom they’d shared for the night. “Geo! Geo, John wants to talk to you.”

George let out a hearty groan and turned, burying his head into the pillow. “Tell him to fuck off! Is it even daytime yet?”

“Aye, and I’m making breakfast, so sit up and take the call, yeah? Phone near the bed.”

“Am I getting breakfast in bed, then?”

“No, son, not even if you were a bird and had shagged me stupid,” Paul heard John laugh through the phone line and chuckled. “C’mon, pick it up so I can hang up. Talk to John.”

After groaning like the most put-upon man on earth, George managed to pick up the extension and Paul, hearing the two men greet each other in profane scouser fashion, hung up.

Hearing the click, John stopped being playful and got right to the point. “What the fuck were you doing, bringin’ Paulie out on the streets, last night, Geo?”

Hazza was still blurry. “Wha’, now?”

“Look, just keep him away from the paper today,” he told George. “At least, find a way to keep him from seeing the gossip pages.” He explained John Dawson’s concerns – concerns he shared – about Paul’s anxiety levels going through the roof at the idea that people, particularly people who might still want to hurt him, now knew where he lived. Brian, he added, was already wondering if he should start looking for another flat. “But one so perfect for his needs… it might be hard to find, you know,” he finished.

“Aye, and he seems comfortable here, and all. You know he had groceries brought up and even cooked for us last night?”

“Is that right,” John’s heart sank. If Paul was comfortable, this would shake him up and ruin that. “Just don’t let him see it, alright? I’ll tell him what’s happened when I come.”

And so, as Paul made a breakfast of porridge, and toast and boiled eggs and tea, George Harrison did the unthinkable, rousing himself from bed and making his way to the front door in robe and slippers -- capturing the morning paper before Paul thought to and then bringing it into the bathroom with him, which he knew Paul hated. While there, he slipped the gossip page and a few others from the bulk of it, folding them into his pockets, and then settled in at the kitchen table.

“You’re not readin’ that at the table after going into the loo with it, Hazza,” Paul’s look was deadly.

“Didn’t actually bring it in there with me, did I,” George looked up, a challenge to his eye. “Just was readin’ it on the bed while I was waiting for you to call me.”

“Like the spoilt prince you are,” Paul rolled his eyes, setting the full teapot before him. “Louise should only know how I wait on you, hand and foot. Cook your dinner, fix your breakfast…” He waved a hand dismissively and George laughed. He loved seeing Paul being playful again. For as long as it might last.

“Always said you’d be a good bird if you couldn’t play the bass,” George teased.

“And you can fuck right off after you eat, if you like!”

“Said just like a bird,” Hazza laughed again, buttering his toast. “But when Patti says it, she _means_ it. You, meanwhile…”

“What about me,” Paul demanded, sitting down with their porridge.

George smiled at him with deep affection from across the table. “You’re a natural mum, then aren’t you? You even make sure I have lunch before I go. And then you’ll button up me coat and wrap a muffler round me head until I can’t see.”

“Aye,” Paul smiled back. “More of a dad, I think. But then I’ll kick your arse out into the cold, just the same. I’m still tougher than Pats, you know.”

“You’d think that,” George slurped, “but only until you’ve lived with her.”

***

George was just finishing packing his overnight bag and agreeing with Paul that a light lunch of cheese and bread would do, when the concierge rang up, informing Paul that a delivery had come for him.

“Not expecting anything,” Paul frowned as he answered. He looked over at George, who shrugged.

“Shall I bring it up, sir, or will you come down for it?”

“I’ll be down in a bit then, thank you.”

“What do you suppose that is,” George wondered, his brow rather heavy with concern, given the gossip page in his pocket.

“Dunno,” Paul shrugged, unconcerned. Then he broke into a smile. “I bet it’s a basket of fruit, from John, then.”

“Oh?” George frowned over his tea cup.

“Yeah.” Paul was still smiling, and a blush was coming up to his cheeks. “A little joke, I think. A private one.”

George hid a smile of his own. _Too fuckin’ cute. And all the cuter because they don’t know that I know. And how flippin’ oblivious must I have been to have not understood what this is, between them, for all these years?_ He couldn’t hold back a small chuckle.

“What?”

“Nothin’, Paulie. Just a cough.”

“Should’ve buttoned up last night, and all.”

“Jaysus, son, let me be my own man!” He put down his teacup and smirked. “Let’s go, then. I can see you’ve ants in your pants to pick up yer basket.”

“Oh, shurrup, Hazza, I do not.”

“You’re buzzin’ like a bee, son, and it’s that dull your days are if a little fruit can make you so happy.”

Paul gave him a friendly shove through the door, locking it tightly behind him and then doing a double check. George was already in the lift by the time he’d finished. When they reached the concierge desk, both men stopped, looking around for a non-existent basket of fruit.

“Well, that’s that, then,” George said, wending a muffler about his neck as he watched his mate's expression deflate.

“Parked far, are you,” Paul frowned as a tenant entered and a bone-chilling breeze followed him in.

“Just a step up the road, love.”

“Ah, Mr. McCartney,” the concierge, who had stepped away, was again behind his desk. “Your delivery.” He indicated a huge vase elegantly filled with what appeared to be two dozen red roses.

“That’s for me, then?” McCartney’s face took on a high blush as he smiled widely, and – unable to resist – shoved his face right into bouquet, sniffing deeply. He loved flowers. He really did. And John knew it.

 _Well done, Lenny!,_ George thought, his grin as wide as Paul’s as he watched. “Who’s from then, mate?”

Paul looked through the blooms, putting on a bit of a show while knowing there would be no message. “No card, Trevor?”

“No, sir. From a fan possibly, or a well-wisher after the pho --”

Hazza suddenly bent over into a loud coughing fit, staying at it until his bandmate had turned his way in concern, pounding at his back. “Alright then, son?”

“Aye.” George finally straightened as the concierge took a call. “Get your silly weeds upstairs before they chill in the breeze. I’m heading out.”

“Alright then,” Paul gave him a fond look before finally grasping at his shoulders and pulling George into a hug. “Thank you for everything, Geo. And for stayin’ the night.”

“And for bringin’ along a priest?”

“Ha! I liked him well enough! My best to Pats!”

After watching his oldest friend take his leave, he nodded his thanks once more to Trevor, and hauled his roses back to his apartment, looking as happy and content as any man could carrying such a fragrant armful.

 _Roses_. John had sent him roses. Carnations and snapdragons suited Macca fine, and his partner knew as much, but John had gone for the big gesture, and Paul was delighted.

An hour later, there was a knock on the door, and Paul rushed to answer, flinging it wide open. “ _Finally!_ ”

It was Trevor, the concierge, bearing a heavy basket of fruit.

“What’s this, then,” Macca frowned.

“Sorry, sir, this came for you and I didn’t want to trouble you to come down again. It’s getting dicey down there.”

“Oh…” Paul, disappointed that Trevor wasn’t John, and barely listening, took the huge basket off of him. “Kind of you.” He turned and walked away, door still open, as he found a place to put it, and then turned back to the young man, pressing bills into his hand. “Thanks for that, then.”

Trevor hesitated, frowning as he bit his lip. “I thank you, sir, but…”

“What is it?”

“It’s just… well, Mr. McCartney, sir, I just realized, I didn’t use the knock as I’d been told.”

“Ah, well. None of us can remember it, can we? No harm done,” Paul said kindly, looking to end the exchange.

“Only, with the fans and all, sir. I should have at least called up to warn you. And you should have asked for the knock, sir, and not just opened the door like that. You never know.”

“Well, the good news is no one knows I’m here, do they?” Paul reassured him with a smile, still only half-listening. “But you’re very right, and I promise, next time I’ll be more careful, whether its you or John Lennon himself comes to the door, aye?”

Trevor looked unconvinced. Discretion and having a care for visitors to the McCartney flat had been firmly impressed upon him by that huge Dawson fellow, Brian Epstein and Lennon himself. Here, the man in question seemed not to get his point about the fans, over a dozen of whom had already been turned away from the building either by the doorman or himself since this morning.

“Sir, but…”

“Thank you, Trevor. I’ll do better, I promise, yeah?” Paul winked at him and closed the door, looking at the basket with a smile.

Two hours later, the concierge rang up once more, announcing the imminent arrival of John Lennon, who minutes later was knocking at the door, “Paulie!”

As he had promised that morning, John barely got through the door before tossing his luggage and guitar case to the side and grabbing at his lover, pulling him into a tight hug as he felt himself squeezed in return. His head ducked into Paul’s neck. “ _Paul,_ ” he murmured, as though the name had been too long from his tongue. “Paul... Baby, you feel so good to hold…”

He felt Paul’s long arms press more deeply into him. “Johnny… _finally!_ ”

“Missed you…”

“Missed you _so_ much…”

It went on for nearly five minutes, the two men simply clinging to each other, murmuring each other’s names and sniffling, parting to look at each other with wet smiles and then falling again into a warm, tight embrace – Paul running his fingers through John’s auburn hair and making those strange Irish love noises that were not really words but conveyed so much, John taking deep breathes of McCartney, filling his lungs with that grassy, leathery scent and hugging him tightly, again and again, until finally he pulled back, taking Paul’s face in his hands and staring at him, smiling into his eyes. “ _My Jamie_ ,” he whispered, pulling Paul into a long, sweet and utterly chaste kiss. No tongue. _Not sex_ , he thought, _just love. Just love_.

 _I’ve landed_ , he thought to himself _.[Safely home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23029519)_[.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23029519)

Paul sighed, pressing his forehead into Lennon’s. “John. My own one. _My love_.”  
  



	32. 5 Days with John: DAY ONE, An Unreachable Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes to Paul's flat for five days. On his first day, he plans on telling Paul about the paparazzi and the photo in the newspaper, but not until after the romantic breakfast Paul has made. From there, things go haywire, and John begins to realize that maybe Paul's condition is more fragile, and more difficult to manage, than he'd realized. PSTD was not widely studied at this time, and so poor John is more or less flying blind, and doesn't even know where to turn for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's visit is going to have lots of ups and downs, so many so that each day is going to be its own chapter. And the way things are going on Day 1, who knows if Day 5 will even happen? PSTD is difficult to write, because it risks reading like it's all over the place, and so I have no idea if this is good or not.
> 
> I apologize for taking so long with this chapter. Work has been very busy and real life... keeps comin' at me.

The bed felt empty.

John reached about. The spot beside him was warm, but Paul was gone. He could hear busy sounds coming from the kitchen, and smiled. Breakfast, then. He snuggled into his pillow, a poor substitute for his partner, and let himself sink into the easy, peaceful sort of feeling he’d been missing for so long. _This_ was like what it had been like, back in those long-ago days when he and Paul had managed to book some weekends away together from time to time -- before The Beatles became the worldwide phenomenon they’d always wanted to be, and had so suddenly become overmanaged commodities. They’d had a few days in Scotland, once – a small fishing village in the lowlands, where no one had cared who they were or what they did. They’d managed nearly a week in Wales, too. Time to [just be together, as themselves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23029519). That was always "home."

"Home" hadn’t happened in a long while, and last night had given them the smallest taste of it, again, as they’d lain snuggling on the couch together, watching an American cowboy movie, John resting on Paul’s chest.

They’d fallen asleep that way, waking up to the white noise of the telly gone off the air. Then, cold and groggy – and holding hands – they’d moved to the bedroom, both putting on pajamas, which was _very_ different than those other times, but lots of things were different, right now, and would have to be for a while. Neither of them caring to remark on that change outright, they had slipped between the covers and re—entangled themselves, this time with John holding Paul, wrapping both arms about him the same way he would hold Julian, sometimes, when the boy crept into his and Cynthia’s bed.

It was nice. It was enough. For the first time since that awful night, John had slept like a stone. _We should have always had our own flat, together,_ was his last thought before he’d fallen into a deep, comfortable slumber.

Wrapping a robe about himself, John padded into the kitchen, standing in the doorway and watching a similarly robed Paul move about, a contented-looking smile on his face.

“Oh! You’re up!” Paul noticed. He raised a box of corn flakes, shaking it in John’s direction with a big smile. “See? I thought of you when I called for the groceries!”

“You are a doll,” John chuckled. “A roasted chicken last night, and now corn flakes. Why aren’t you my wife?”

“Why aren’t you _mine_ ,” Paul teased. He gestured toward the tray he’d been assembling. “And why am I making you breakfast in bed, instead of you doing it?”

“In bed? Silly place to make breakfast. But I’m here, now.”

“Aye, and so that ends that. Never thought you’d wake up so soon. Oh!” A worried look crept over his face. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry…”

John moved over to where Paul was scrambling eggs, wrapping his arms around his lover’s waist and kissing the back of his head. “You didn’t wake me. I just missed you is all.”

Paul didn’t pull away, but John had felt the very slight jump before the lad relaxed in his hold. _You came up to him from behind_ , John noted to himself. _Be careful_.

“Those smell good,” he murmured into Paul’s ear. “I love your scrambled eggs. All that lovely butter.”

“Well, that’s good because I’m making enough for both of us,” Paul smiled, ducking his head a little. “Hey, why don’t you go pull a couple of oranges and bananas for us from the fruit basket, and I’ll slice ‘em up.”

Ever obedient when Paul was in one of his domestic moods, John went into the sitting room, unwrapping the basket he never ordered. It had bothered him at first, that he'd permitted Paul to thank him for something he'd nothing to do with, but since there was no card, there seemed no harm, in it, really.

When he’d arrived, the concierge had shown him a box filled with the numerous poseys, flower bunches and stuffed animals left by fans, and asked whether he should bring them up.

“Give the flowers out to residents as they come in, will you? And the stuffed animals to any kids that live here. Don’t bother McCartney with those.” He’d lifted one bunch of carnations – Paul would love them, he knew -- and told the concierge that he’d prefer not to see anything further delivered to the flat, unless he or Paul had called down in advance about it.

 _Fuck and dammit, though_. All the gifts meant that everyone knew where Paul was, now, if they were paying attention. He dreaded mentioning it but knew he would have to. _After breakfast_ , he thought, _I don’t want to ruin it, or him so early_.

The fruit basket was a thing of beauty. Whoever had sent it had spent a pretty dime; it was loaded with imported oranges (which he and Paul both loved) fresh apples (ditto), grapes and bananas and plums and small greenish hairy things they’d encountered in Australia. _Kiwi_ , were they? That sounded right. It also boasted a huge pineapple at its center. Pulling aside the wrapping, he grabbed two oranges and a banana for his cereal. “Do you want this big pineapple?” He called to Paul.

“Aye, bring it. We’ll chill it for tonight!”

His hands full, John laid the pineapple in his arm, and that’s when he spotted the card. It must have moved when the fruit had been jostled, slipping down behind the massive, prickly fruit. “To Mr. McCartney” it read.

John slipped it into the pocket of his robe with a sigh—he’d have to admit to not buying the silly thing, now -- and delivered his bundle to the kitchen. “Just put the pineapple in the fridge, Paul instructed. “We’ll eat in exactly one minute.”

“Good. Need a pee,” John explained as he disappeared into the bathroom. He really did need a pee, but afterward he looked at the envelope. The handwriting looked masculine, and John suddenly had a bad feeling -- felt like if he hadn’t already emptied his bladder, he might piss himself, then and there. Pulling the card, he read.

Christ!

_Christ, no!_

They knew. _They knew where he was_. Paul was no longer safe, not here!

John’s hands were trembling. _Dawson_. He’d have to find a way to call John Dawson. And Brian. Maybe everyone.

“John?” Paul was calling from the kitchen. “Come on, love, before the eggs get cold.”

Hands still shaking, John returned the card to his robe and quickly splashed his face with cold water, shaking his head and checking his expression in the mirror. It wouldn’t do to look disturbed. He took a heavy breath. Then another, blowing out his anxiety. Nodding, he willed himself to smile, and went in to breakfast.

The carnations were on the table, arranged _just so_ in a glass pitcher. Paul had scattered rose petals from John’s bouquet all around their place settings, and laid out cereal, eggs, sausages and slices of the fruit. John looked at it all with an aching heart and no appetite at all. _But look at him, smiling at me, so proud of himself, so sweet,_ he thought. _Force it down, Lennon, for his sake._

With as natural a smile as he could manage, John sat. Immediately his partner reached over, covering his hand with his own, and giving a squeeze. “ _Johnny_." Paul's eyes were almost sparkling like they used to, John saw. A little bit of the old familiar light he'd always loved and had gone missing from Macca's eyes, was almost there. "I’ve missed doing this with you. I’ve… you know. I’ve missed _you_. And _us._ ”

John raised his hand, placing a light kiss on his fingers. “Me too, sweetheart.”

He was happy to see Paul spear a sausage and do damage to it as he poured milk on his cereal. But no, he couldn’t bear the idea of adding those banana slices to it all, now. _Bastards_. “The rose petals are a lovely touch,” he said softly, surprised at his own self-control.

“And the carnations,” Paul nodded as he gnawed at a slice of orange. “I love them both, you know, but the carnations…”

John couldn’t help smiling, “Yeah, I know…you can’t resist a carnation.” _Alright, I stole them from a fan, but I did think to do that, right?_

“Remember that time Mimi accused me of [‘molesting the bouquet’ in her hallway?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/46704061)”

John did. Paul, having helped John get through is mother’s wake and funeral, had left Mendips with a touch of swagger and one of Mimi’s pink carnations in his buttonhole. “You thanked her for breakfast and then took the flower. Made your escape with Mimi calling you an Irish Republican out to riot and a “repellent, tedious, _maddening_ boy.”

Paul had recited the litany with him and they laughed together at the memory. “God bless Mimi, she never changes,” he chuckled.

“Aye that’s so. But… you know,” John started. _No, let that go_.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just… well, when you were sick.”

“What about it? John?”

John decided to make a joke of it. “It’s nothing. Just, she really was worried, you know. Went all out of character.”

“Aye? How?”

[“She called you ‘our darling boy’.”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/54420601)

Paul looked stunned. “She _never!_ ”

“Oh, yes, and please note, not just _her_ darling boy, but _ours_. Kind of thought that was interesting.”

“That is! Do you think she knows? About us?” His partner seemed less worried than genuinely curious.

John threw a few rose petals his way. “I think she knows I love you, you beautiful idiot, now eat up. And pass some of those eggs over here, will you?”

Over tea, John caught Paul simply gazing at him affectionately over the smoke of his cigarette. “Did you sleep well, John, love?”

“Like a solid rock, son. Like I haven’t slept since…” John sighed, “you know. How about you?” He was curious whether Paul would tell him what he already knew, what George had told him after leaving the flat. “He had a nightmare that scared the bejesus out of me, John. He was screaming outright. Shook the fuckin’ walls, he did. Asked me to sleep with him, like the old days.”

“Me too,” Paul answered. “I slept well. Having you with me, it… it really helped. No nightmares.” He grimaced quickly, as though he hadn’t meant to say that.

John’s eyebrows went up immediately as he pretended ignorance. It would never do for Paul to know how many people were keeping daily tabs on him. “You’re having nightmares?”

Paul shrugged guiltily. “Just now and now,” he admitted. “Hazza climbed into bed with me the other night. Think I gave him the willies.”

“What’s this,” John smiled, giving his partner a playful little push. “You had that mongrel in our bed? I may never forgive you!”

“Oh, no worries, love I changed the sheets!” Paul smiled back.

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“Didn’t even do that for George, after Jane, you know. Well,” Paul frowned as he thought it through, “hadn’t expected him to be in our bed that night, had I?”

“How’d that go, by the way, with Jane?” Jane Asher continued to be a mystery to John Lennon. She, unlike George, had not called him [with a scouting report after her visit.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/58936411)

Paul shrugged again, this time his face had gone blank, indicating his unwillingness to say much. “Not… great. _She_ is! Great, I mean, you know. But…” he seemed to shiver as he let the thought go, and John didn’t pursue it.

They sipped in silence for a moment. “You know, I like the sound of that. _Our bed_ ,” John considered in a quiet voice. “Like we were really living together. Like maybe we should be. All the time.”

The phone rang before Paul could answer. John listened in for a second, until he realized it was Jim McCartney on the other line, and then – with a sigh of relief that it was only him – he went about clearing the table and filling the sink with soapy water. _Whoever cooks, the other cleans_ had always been their agreement, and he was happy to keep himself busy while listening to Paul patiently explain to his father, once, twice, a third time, why he wasn’t keen on spending Christmas at Wirral, and that he had not yet made up his mind about it.

Old Jim was insisting. John sincerely believed there was no more stubborn person on the planet than James Paul McCartney when he thought he was right about something, or really wanted his own way. But he also knew that if anyone could break his resolve, his father was the man to do it.

“I know it, Da, I know. But that’s just…. yeah but... Da. _Da_ , will you _listen_?” John was drying his hands as watched Paul pace back and forth, carrying the phone in a tense hand. His frustration was evident in every word, but the old man didn’t seem to hear it. “But that’s just it, all those McCartney’s, all those Mohins, all those – all those _questions_. I’ll have to tell them a million times that I’m fine. And I’ll have to put on the jolly face, and play the piano, and I _can’t_ you know. I just can’t play – I mean… what- what if I can’t? If I’m just not in the mood?”

Hearing Paul's anxious stammer starting to show itself, John shook his head and dragged Paul by one arm to the sofa. He sat and then pulled the distressed young man into his lap, wrapping both arms around his waist and kissing his cheek. It made Paul smile, albeit grimly, as he rolled his eyes and that was enough for John – to make him smile, even if it was a bit forced. Paul settled back tensely against him. “Da, please. It’s still early. Let me have a bit of time to see how I feel, yeah? Please? I promise, I’ll let you know soon, okay? By next week, okay? I promise. Yes. I promise.”

“He _promises_ , Jim, let him off the phone, now,” John called out, “yer eatin’ up my visitin’ time, aren’t ya?”

He heard Paul chuckle into the phone. “Aye, John’s here. And…” Inspiration struck the lad. “And, we’re goin’ out for a walk, Da, so I have to go. What? What do you mean all the fans, there’s –”

John grabbed the receiver from Paul’s hand. “Gotta go, Jim,” he shouted into it. “I’ve got your boy all in hand, now, and I'm the boss! Bye-bye!”

He hung up with a firm thud, and took the phone from Paul’s stunned hands, shoving it on to a table. “Next he calls, you tell him you’re doing Christmas with me and Cyn and Jules, yeah? Because you are.”

“No, but, I don’t want to intrude, John, that’s your –”

“You’re spending Christmas with us. There. It’s settled. Cyn wouldn’t have it any other way. And Jules has been missing you, so there is no argument. Not in you to disappoint a kid, Paul.”

“Really? You don’t mind it? And Cyn won’t?”

“Macca, she gets to have her mother with us. I need to have someone on my side, a respite. You’d be doing me a favor.” He pulled Paul into a hug, and felt his partner quickly rest his head on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Johnny,” he murmured. “And if I feel like I need to be alone, I can just--”

“You come and go as you like, dollface. You’re your own man.”

He could feel Paul’s whole body relax as he let loose a huge sigh. _Alright._ _One monster down_ , John thought. “Speakin’ of Julian,” he shifted, “let me up a sec.”

He rose and went into their bedroom, meaning to retrieve something and go right back to Paul, so he was surprised to turn and find his partner there, rather anxiously tugging at the ties of his robe. “I was coming right back,” he said.

“Yeah. Missed you.”

John sat on the bed, then, resting against the headboard and patting the mattress. “Alright, love, come along.”

Paul, suddenly looking like he was ten years old, scrambled on to the bed, beside him. “What’s that, then, in your hand?”

“From Jules. He’s been asking for you, you know, and when I said I was going to visit ‘Unca Paw’ because he’s been hurt, he drew this for you.”

“Aw…” Paul opened up the notebook page and gazed with amusement on a ragged circle filled with scribbles, predominately orange and red.

“Oh, look,” he joked, “Jules is intuitive. He’s very aptly shown me in one of the levels of hell. The nightmare one.”

“Don’t give him too much credit, love, he’s just been fixated on reds and oranges and yellows for weeks. I think he’s eaten all the other flavors.”

“Well, remind me not to change his nappies come Christmas, then.” John felt him slip his head against his chest. He ran fingers through Paul’s uncombed hair and Paul looked up, his big doe eyes soft. The younger man reached over, stroking John’s face with tenderness. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered, kissing his own fingers, and laying them on John's mouth. John kissed them back. 

“I’m glad, too,” John agreed in a low voice, “my love.”

“ _My love_ ,” Paul mused, his eyes still darkly affectionate. “One day I’ll write a song called ‘My Love’ and it will be all yours. And it will be the saddest song I ever sing, because it will be so beautiful, but no one will know it’s all about John Lennon, who is so beautiful.”

“Paulie…” John gasped at that, bringing his arms fully around his mate. “Paul… How do you always do it,” he marveled. “You say things like that… it all just slips out of you like syrup, doesn’t it? You just stagger my heart.”

“But I mean it,” Paul started to object.

“I know you do, love, I know it. And, God, I love it. I love when you do it.” John clung harder, wishing he could pull the lad inside of himself and keep him there, safe and with him unto his very marrow. An unreachable place.

“John?”

“Aye, love?”

“I’m feeling a little squished.”

“I know. Sorry. I just love you, you know.”

“I love you, too, Johnny. I do.”

After another minute, Paul spoke again. “John?”

“Aye?”

“Almost can’t breathe, now.”

The laughter broke John’s intense hold. “I’m sorry, am I suffocating you?”

Paul affected a cough as he moved out of his reach. “You’re loving me to death,” he teased. “A _little_ death, anyway.”

“ _Le_ _petite mort,”_ John said it automatically, before he could stop himself, and he saw Paul’s expression instantly go tense, saw him bite down on his lower lip as his always-overthinking-it brain clamped down on the words and immediately began to worry them.

“I don’t mean it like that Paul,” John rushed to say. “I didn’t mean sex, I just meant--”

“But that’s what it is, isn’t it? The… the big question. The…”

“No, Paul, oh, no, no, love, let’s not go there…”

“ _It’s there already, John_ , don’t you see?" Paul's began to rise with a panic he seemed unable to tamp down. "And it’s not just you. It’s me, too. You say it in French, I say it in English, it’s still the same words, the same thought coming up from both of us, isn’t it? From our – from our brains, our guts. Are we – can we ever have that--”

“Paul, please…Baby, please. Stop. Just _stop_ , okay?” John's own voice was beginning to rise. 

“But you don’t know, John, _you don’t know_ … I can’t. I can’t even tell you--”

“I don’t want you to, baby. _Paul_ ,” John could think of nothing to do but pull his partner back into his arms. He discovered he was himself shivering, trying to hold back a rising sense of disorientation. What in the world had happened? Paul's whole mood seemed to have changed like the flick of a light switch, from light to dark. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do, anything you _can’t_ do. I just…”

He could feel his throat tightening and gritted his teeth, trying to hold back the curses he wanted to let fly, hold back his fury at what had become of Paul, of them, and all that they had been to each other for so long. _“Fuck,”_ he swore under his breath, livid that they’d been dragged to this place against their wills. This place from which they might never scratch out an escape. “Paul, I just want you to be _you_.” The last words came croaking out of John, and he shut his eyes tight against his tears.

“I want... _that_. I want to be me again, John…”

“You will be, love,” he was stroking Paul’s hair with one trembling hand. “You _are_. Just… just give it time, love, give us time. I’m willing to do that, aren’t you?”

“But…” John could hear the strain in Paul’s own voice, the tightness, could tell that he too was speaking through gritted teeth and with closed eyes. “Johnny, I want to be the me that’s _yours_ again. Not… this… whatever I’ve become.”

“Oh, Paul. I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry I never meant my words to bring us here. Please.” He pulled away, taking Paul's face into his hands. “Look at me, Paul.” He waited until Paul had opened his eyes. “You _are_ the Paul that’s mine. You always will be. Please, believe me.”

Paul’s eyes shifted away as he gulped away a memory of that night. Of becoming hard against his own will. “I want to,” he said in a small, timid voice. “I want to believe you. But I’m a mess, John. You don’t know.”

John pressed his hand against the back of Paul’s head as he pulled him back into an embrace. He wished he could scream. Wished he could punch something. The instincts to do so were churning inside him, as natural to him as rain in autumn. But Paul was in his arms. Paul needed him. Christ. _Christ, what do I do?_

“You’re my mess, then,” he said, deliberately quietening his voice, willing himself to gentle his tone. “You’re my beautiful, peerless, extraordinary Paul. My Macca. You’re my mess and I love you like this. And I will love you the way you are next week, and next month. However it may go, I’m not going anywhere.”

He could feel Paul’s arms creep around him, until they encircled him, returning the hug. Felt him sigh against his chest, and begin to relax. “Do you mean it, Johnny?”

“Of course, I do, Paul. Darling.”

They held each other like that, John unwilling to let go until he could feel Paul truly begin to relax. Felt the younger man’s head slide down on to his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, John,” he whispered.

“Why, baby?" Lennon felt that helplessness again, and held his breath against it. "What for?”

“For… _that_. That… _me_. The version of me that keeps breaking down.” He pulled away, and John could see the worry on Macca's face. He wondered if it showed on his own, as well. “I don’t know what’s happens to me. I just… some little thing sets me off and then it all caves in on me, and I – I just fall apart. I think I’m doing well and then…it’s like I go to this place inside me that’s just madness… all panic and fear, and...”

“I know, love.” John began to stroke Paul’s shoulders and chest, trying to soothe him. “I know. Maybe if… do you think that when that happens, when you go that place, maybe if you just told me what’s going through your mind, why you’re so worried--”

“No…” Paul shook his head, pulling away. “No, Johnny, that I’ll never do. I never can.”

 _Who does he think he's protecting, closing himself off like that_ , John wondered. _Maybe I don't want to know. Maybe I need his protection as much as he needs mine. Maybe I should be grateful that he would spare me what I don't know if I can handle. The awful everything._

Suddenly feeling so weary he was almost extinguished, John pulled off his robe. When Paul looked up at him, John pulled off his robe, too, and motioned for him to get under the covers.

“What are we doing,” Paul wondered.

“We’re going to sleep, love. Johnny and Paulie are going to have a little nap, now.”

Paul stretched out beside him. “I’m not tired, though.”

“You are, baby. You’re more exhausted than you realize,” he looked over and – as he had done a million times before, since they were teenagers – gently removed Paul’s fingertips from his mouth. “C’mere. Scootch in and let me hold you, and we’ll sleep a little, yeah?”

Paul didn’t resist. Facing each other, foreheads together, they simply stared into each other’s eyes, watching the questions as they formed and disappeared, seeing the sadness they shared as it bubbled up and then dissipated as familiar, loving looks eventually pierced through, like sunshine chasing away the clouds, for a little while.

“Johnny…” Paul asked softly. “I – I can’t do much. I’m sorry.”

“Stop, Paul…”

“No, please, let me finish.”

John sighed, betraying a little impatience. He really did want to sleep, to just get away from all of this, escape for a little while _. Can’t we go back to breakfast. To before the petite mort? Before the fruit basket? Before the fucking paparazzi had taken a picture? Before George had gotten too drunk to be sensible about Paul? Before that night, that goddamned, cursed night._

“Okay then,” he said.

“It’s just… I want to try something. Just… one little thing, okay?” He saw John’s nod and continued. “Can I – can I kiss you? Can I try? You know... from me to you?”

John’s smile was real. “I have always been yours for anything you’ve ever wished to try, hon.”

Paul blushed a little, but smiled, too. “Just a little?”

“As little or big as you like, baby. Go for broke.”

“I am broke,” Paul licked his lips. “Broken, I mean, but…” With that he came up on one elbow, leaning slightly above John but not touching. Closing his eyes, he lowered his lips to his partner’s and kissed him, chastely, simply lips-to-lips, adding just the smallest swipe of his tongue before moving away with a sigh. 

“Was that okay?” He sounded a little anxious. John, whose eyes were still closed, the smallest of smiles playing on his lips.

“Sweet as honey,” John murmured. He opened one eye. “Was it okay for you, though, love? No scaries?”

Paul managed a small smile. “A little scary," he admitted. "Mostly that you’d think I’m a wimp for being nervous about something so small.”

“Perspective is everything, Paul.” John’s tone was teasing and light, but he meant for the younger man to hear him. “Seriously. From my perspective, that was enormous. Massive. You’re Homeric, baby. You’ve always been the bravest man I know.”

“Even still,” Paul’s eyes were wide at the praise.

“Even still, and evermore.”

Something deep within Paul seemed to find relief with those reassuring words. He snuggled down into the bed, gave John a look of pure gratitude, and was asleep within minutes.

John wasn’t very far behind him, but as he watched Paul sleep, he was thinking that he might need some help keeping up with his poor, damaged lover, that maybe the two of them – as partners, if not as a couple -- might benefit from talking to some sort of expert. Because was this normal? For someone to go from making breakfast like a champion, to falling apart on the strength of a thoughtless turn of phrase, to wanting to experiment with kisses? Did experts on such matters even exist? John’s head was fairly spinning at Paul’s changing moods and it wasn’t even properly noon, yet. It felt like a symphonic train wreck happening all around him, like, "Variations on a Theme of Paul, First Collision".

 _I love him, but I don’t wholly know him, anymore,_ John recognized, and the thought brought on a deep sadness. _There are places in him, now that I’ve never seen and can’t reach. My poor, beautiful lad._

Before he fell into his own dreams, he had one last thought: _I can’t tell him. I can’t tell him alone, about the photo in the paper. I can’t tell him about the fruit basket, and who sent it, and what they wrote. I can’t go through him breaking down on me, again. Not alone. We’ll have John Dawson in to supper. We need Dawson._


	33. DAY TWO: "They're going to kill me, aren't they?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot going on in this chapter, including a raucous dinner replete with Tales of Prostitutes, but the laughter doesn't last long. With John Dawson's help, Lennon finally tells Paul about the published photo. When Paul seems to handle that well, shows him the jeering card sent to him by his attackers. Things then go off the rails as Paul spirals into mania, first vowing an aggressive response full of bravado, and then wondering why he can't just die. Brian arrives with enough marijuana to level him a bit, but then the men try to force music on him -- John tries to encourage him by singing a meaningful song, and Paul finally gets truly violent. It's a bad, bad night -- Paul's worst night, by far, since leaving the hospital -- and by its end, everyone but Paul is wondering whether he needs to be committed, somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some have been asking for a "nice long chapter", and this may qualify, but it's not a happy read. I'm sorry. I put some funny stuff in to give you a laugh, but... Paul's life is hard right now. So is the reading. To be perfectly honest, I wish Paul would just announce things, as he's threatened. But it's 1965, not 2020....

John lay in the bed, not yet ready to open his eyes. He could feel Macca’s leg pressed against his, so that was good. After a moment, he was able to discern his partner’s regular breathing – another good sign. Warily he turned over to his side, trying not to disturb the bed too much.

Finally, his lids fluttered open, and there was Paul. Asleep, and deeply so, thank God.

John watched him for a few minutes, taking in the slightly parted lips – _did anyone on earth ever have more perfect lips_ , he wondered, not for the first time in his life. The rough and heavy beard that so fetchingly countered the undeniable prettiness of Paul McCartney. The nose. The eyes, framed in those lashes. _I never had a chance_ , Lennon thought fondly as he surveyed the lad further. The slim torso; the long, lean legs. The lusciously curved arse that, if he could have his way, John would have designated a natural wonder of England.

“God was in a very good mood the day he made you,” he’d once whispered to Paul [from across a patch of Parisian lawn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119496), once upon a time. So long ago. “The Queen herself would call for a national holiday if she ever laid eyes on you. Then she’d troop the colors in honor of that face. She’d lay a knighthood on you for gifting the world with that ass.”

Paul had blushed scarlet at the first remark and then nearly choked with laughter at the last. “I’m just a bloke,” he said, as he always did when John was too lavish in his praise. But Lennon knew that the modesty, natural though it might be, was also well-informed. Macca was fully aware of the power of his looks, and would deploy the doe eyes and fluttering lashes at will, especially if he was trying to win over a bird. Or Brian. Or anyone, really. But especially John, who was helpless before them.

He frowned at his own thoughts, his lips becoming a thin, compressed line as he scolded himself interiorly. _Don’t do that, don’t sexualize him like that, not now._

He was ashamed of feeling warm about a part of Paul’s body that deserved his respectful discretion more than his lustful musings, and felt guilty, too, for lingering on a memory from better times -- _Paris, the very best of times_ – after having spent a night watching the person he loved more ( _yes, finally, just say it, Lenny the person you love more than anyone else in the world_ ), in the grip of a sudden mania, so profound that John had finally drugged him, in order to simply let the poor lad’s mind and body have a rest.

And he was ashamed of that, too. Someone drugging Paul, taking away his personal agency, had been the catalyst for all of this wreckage they were trapped in. And now, he’d done it, too.

He'd suspected the revelation of the paparazzi photo would shake Paul, and it did, but not immediately. The lad had borne up fairly well, at first. But then, when John confessed that he’d not sent the gift basket, and handed Paul the card hidden within it, things… _well, thank God John Dawson was here. And Brian._

Macca had been surprised when, after breakfast, a slight breakdown and then a nap, John – wearing his best game-face – suggested they invite Dawson in to supper. “If you like,” he'd agreed after a moment. “I always like seeing Dawson. Maybe we can try out the pub he dragged me to while he was here last.”

Lennon’s eyebrows had shot up. “He took you out? To a pub?”

“Oh, aye, I haven’t told you,” Paul remembered, scratching at his bedhead. Whilst he was bringin’ me up to date on what he’s discovered, I… well, I had a rough moment.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” John said mildly.

“No, no wonder,” Paul agreed quickly. He looked up at John, his big eyes seeming to grow bigger, and nearly black. “He told me – told me who ‘Cholly’ was. And that… well, you already know. That there were four…”

John said nothing, only opening his arms for his Macca to scramble into them, and then laying kiss after kiss upon his partner’s hair, to his cheeks and temples.

“He’s in jail and he can rot there. And we’ll get the rest of them, too, baby. Everyone who hurt you will pay. So, _fuck Cholly_. Just fuck him.”

“No, thank you.”

 _What?_ _Was that Macca making a joke, however weak, about the worst day, and the worst person in his life?_ _This is promising_ , Lennon thought.

“Anyway,” Paul gulped through it and manfully moved on. “After that, like I said, he decided I needed to be aired and walked as though I was puppy that hadn’t been trained up proper. Dragged me out to a pub – nice place, actually, very quiet – and we had a few stouts and talked. John,” Paul suddenly grabbed Lennon’s arm and strained his neck to see him. “He’s got a story. He’s… he had a lover named Ned, and it’s so sad…”

Talking about something besides himself seemed to energize Macca, and he relayed Dawson’s long and tragic story while the two men dressed and set the bed – a fussy bit of housekeeping John had long ago stopped arguing with Paul about, letting him have his way.

“But the best thing,” the lad motormouthed as they made their way to the tea kettle, “Is that he’s… you know, he gets us. He _understands_. We don’t have to pretend around him. Johnny, it’s such a great thing to have a friend we can simply be ourselves with. We’ve never--”

With that John had turned to Paul and taken his face between his hands, kissing him soundly, if chastely, on the lips. “We’ve never been able to do _that_ around anyone else, I know, love. How ‘bout you put up some tea because this feckin’ weather won’t let up, and I’ll ring him, see if he’ll eat with us?”

“Alright, then,” Paul had smiled as his cheeks colored.

Dawson had, thankfully, been available for John’s call and he immediately gleaned the tension in John’s voice. “What’s wrong, son, is he panicking about the gossip page shot?”

“No, no. Not yet, anyway. He doesn’t know.”

“He doesn’t know? John, why on earth haven’t you told him?”

The detective heard the younger man breathe helpless across the wires. “I can’t. I can’t bear it. He’s going to fall apart, John, when he hears--”

“The lad is a good deal stronger than we give him credit for, you know.”

“He is, but he’s not. Last night, he was fine one moment, and then crashing about the next, but there’s more to tell… I can’t explain over the phone; I don’t want him to hear. Just, please come. I can do it, if you’re here.”

“Well, of course, if you feel you need me--”

“I do.” John interrupted. “I do need you. _We_ need you,” he clarified. Lowering his voice, he added, “And maybe plan to stay the night…”

Paul had emerged from the kitchen with two steaming cups of tea and some hastily scrabbled together toast and jam. “Is he coming?”

“Aye, he is. Was thinking I might call Brian, too. Ask him to join us for coffee and drinks, after.”

“Really,” Paul frowned, anxiety dawning on his face. “Are you sure? I’ll have to figure out a menu.”

“Bugger that,” John snorted over a mouthful of toast. “Some good restaurants around here. I’ll ask Eppy’s office to take care of it.”

“Then what are we going to do all day,” Paul objected.

There was a small, fragile silence between them as each man realized it was a question they’d never once needed to ask, in all their years together.

“We’re gonna get out our guitars and play,” John rescued the moment with a smile.

“Haven’t played in so long m’calluses have thinned, you know…”

“Time to bring ‘em back, love.” John sensed an entirely new tension coming from Macca and adjusted. “Or you know, I _am_ the laziest man in the world. Be happy to just watch the stupid telly with you and eat chocolates until we’re sick.”

“Aye, let’s do that,” was the surprising answer.

 _Paul McCartney, choosing a chocolate binge over music,_ John Lennon mused. _My world officially no longer makes any sense_.

Thanks to Eileen, Brian’s office had again come through, answering John’s inarticulate request first with the delivery of enough groceries to fill the kitchen cabinets and fridge, and then – a few hours later – bringing an elegant supper, plates and all. The woman herself had shown up, giving both men enormous hugs, (“Paul, dear, I am so glad you’re up and about. John, go comb your hair…”) and then directing a few waiters from a fine restaurant as they laid out a tablecloth, wine glasses, and enough delectable-smelling covered dishes to feed a corral.

“A _chateaubriand_! You didn’t have to do all this,” Paul had blushed his thanks.

“And caramel mousse in the fridge, for after,” Eileen warned.

“Fancy,” a cranky sounding Lennon added. “I figured on sausages and a spotted dick, you know…”

“Brian said Paul deserved something a little special, and I’m a girl who loves to plan a party. He’s coming by later, by the way.”

“He is?” Macca seemed nonplussed. “Seems like a lot of fuss.”

“I did invite him for coffee, Macca,” John explained. “Forgot to mention.”

“The house will send someone over tomorrow to collect all this,” Eileen had fussed as she tipped the restaurant staff and kissed both men goodbye. “Just scrape your plates.”

“This is grand, Eileen, thank you…” John managed to find his manners.

“It’s nothing, is it? Just a phone call, really, but anything for you boys…” She turned to Paul, looking directly into his eyes. “I’m just so glad you’re around for me to fuss over, sweet lad.”

Macca’s hand went to his chest. He mouthed words that never actually came as his throat once more went tight with gratitude.

Mere minutes later, John Dawson was being announced by the concierge and then at their door. Observing the formally set table, the silver service and candlesticks, he cast a shrewd eye over the whole and handed his coat and hat to John. “Look, lads, I know I’m a catch, but you needn’t have gone to so much trouble for me. This looks fit for a queen!”

“And here you are,” Lennon smirked.

Dawson’s laugh boomed so loud, neither of them heard Paul’s shocked gasp, before he too allowed himself a chuckle.

Despite the elegant trappings, John thought now, the dinner had been wonderfully relaxed. Paul, completely comfortable with John Dawson, had tucked in and made a surprisingly good meal of it, with Lennon deciding to let his inner glutton out for bit of a free-for-all, as well. The detective kept the lads amused by telling outrageous stories from his copper days, “My hand to God, every word is true,” he swore at one point as Lennon and McCartney nearly choked to death from laughing. “This prossie kicked the fella so hard I swore balls were lodged in his throat. When I got there, he was rolling around on the ground, hands on the jewels and screaming like a pig whistle, and all the while she’s cursin’ up a storm and giving him her sharp heel on his back, yellin’ ‘Turn over ye dickless wonder and stop actin’ like ye ever had somethin’ there for me to kick. I’ve had schoolboys with bigger bait n’tackle than whot you got! I’ve had _womenfolk_ with more! Don’t matter if you’re the size of a gherkin, though. Even if you can’t fill a fountain pen, you’ll pay _me_ full, you will!’ I finally got a good look at her,” Dawson gasped, “and she looked as old as my granny, just beatin’ on this poor fella…”

“Christ, sounds like the one in Hamburg,” John wheezed and coughed through his laughter. “What was ‘er name, Macca, the one we shared that time near the Kino?”

“Oh, God, _Greta_ ,” Paul’s face reddened at the memory. “At least that’s what she called herself.”

“Aye, Greta.”

“You were sharin’ her, you say?” Dawson became all-attentive.

“We were… you know,” Paul smiled, biting his lip. “Experimentin’. Wanted to see what it was like.”

“We were low on cash and figured we’d pool our funds on a girl, and this one was willin’. She was all over our Paulie, here, callin’ him ‘Engelsgesicht". You know, ‘angel face’. All the girls called him that, but she was just going on and on.” John affected a high-pitched sexual pant. _“‘Oh! Oof! Mein kleiner himmlischer Junge!’”_

“What’s that,” Dawson asked.

John grinned wickedly across the table. “Tell him, Macca.”

“‘ _My little heaven boy_ ’,” Paul admitted, ducking his face as he blushed.

“Oh, he didn’t live that one down for ages, did you, ‘my little heaven boy,’” John teased. “We’re in an alley with her. It’s feckin’ freezin’ out.”

“Ich habe Eiszapfen auf meinen Säcken,” Paul added, with feeling.

“Icicles on our balls,” John translated. “So, we’re sharin’ her. Macca’s against the wall, pants around his ankles and bracin’ her legs. She’s rockin’ on him like there’s no tomorrow, and I’m just trying to find my way in, you know?”

“We were disgusting animals, our first time in Hamburg,” Paul admitted to Dawson. “They treated us like animals and we lived it that way. Not proud of it, now.”

“Kindly shurrup, Macca, I’m tellin’ the story.”

“Sorry…”

“So, she’s all over him, ‘my angel puss, my kitten, delight of my pussy…”

 _“Mein Kätzchen, Freude meiner Muschi,”_ Macca continued giving the German.

“‘ _Muschi’_ is ‘pussy’,” John helped.

_“Mein schöner Jüngling_ _.”_

“‘My beautiful man-boy’, she was sayin’.”

“This is a _prostitute_ , we’re talking about, right?” Dawson raised an eyebrow.

“I was cute,” Paul shrugged.

“You were,” John admitted, laughing. “Honestly I think she wanted to marry him. She wanted his babies.”

“Shurrup,” Paul fell into a frown as he rose. “I’m makin’ coffee…”

“Go ahead, _my beautiful man-boy_ ,” John called after him.

“So, what happened,” Dawson was leaning forward, trying to get John back on track.

“So, like I said, I’m trying to find my way, alright? But she’s a movin’ target all left-right-up-down, “‘Oh, Paul! _Paulie, mein schatz_!’ and Paul is like, ‘John, John, where are you?’”

“I can hear you,” came Macca’s voice from the kitchen.

“And finally, I realized it wasn’t in the cards, so I just started, you know, rubbin’ myself on her. A little _frottage_ , aye? I don’t mind it. Got her warmth on me and I’m watching my little heaven boy’s eyes start to roll back into his head--”

“I swear to God, John!”

“The three of us are all moving together, chasin’ after the finish, and the two of them go off pretty much together. Paulie’s growlin’ and moanin’, and she’s all _‘Ja! Ja!’_ and finally he’s groaning, ‘Johnny, oh, Johnny!’ And that’s all I need, just watchin’ him, hearin’ my name on his lips like that. She’s trying to catch her breath and meanwhile I’m goin’ off like a roman candle all over Greta’s back, her clothes, her blouse and skirt…just everywhere. I’ve soaked her like a firehose. And it was freezing cold, remember.”

“Oh, no,” Dawson shook his head, laughter rumbling in his big chest.

“She spins around at me, while she’s still locked on Paul, and _slaps_ me harder than you can believe, like to take my head off! And she’s screaming, _‘Schwein! Teufelsratte!’_ ”

“‘ _Pig!_ _Devil’s rat!_ ’” Came from the kitchen.

“She jumps off Paul, leavin’ his bits shrivelin in the cold, and reaches down for something and then starts beating me over the head with her shoe, while she’s screaming _‘Ungeziefer_!’”

“Vermin!”

“‘ _Geh weg, biest!_ ’”

“Go away beast!”

“‘ _Du hast mich verdreckt, verunreinigt und ruiniert!_ ’”

There was silence from the kitchen for a moment. Dawson and John waited. Finally, “‘ _You have ruined me dirty unclean_ ’…I think…and she drew blood!”

“She did, with her heel,” Lennon admitted, while the old copper chortled. “Turns out she was the fastidious sort, and I guess her clothes were new, or freshly cleaned? Picture it! The three of us in an alley, all of us with our drawers around our ankles, with Greta hopping on one foot, hitting me in the head and screaming foulness at me, and every once in a while turning to Paul and purring, ‘but not _you_ , my angel lover, _nein_ ,’ and then going back to wailing on me! And me and Paul are scramblin’ to pull up our trousers.”

“Leather,” Paul called out. “In the feckin’ cold. Cracklin’ with filth and our fingers frozen.”

“And Paul’s bein’ nice, trying to pull up her drawers, too, while she bangin’ away on me.”

“Wasn’t our best moment,” Paul added, hands in his pockets as he leaned in the doorway, waiting for the coffee to brew. “Finally, Pete Best -- our drummer, then, you know, a good lookin’ guy – he hears the commotion and comes strollin’ down the alley. He picks her up over his shoulder, and says, ‘Now, now, Greta, don’t be beatin’ on John anymore,” and starts carrying her away, cool as you please. And suddenly she’s like, “ _Peter, so ein hübscher Junge_!”

“‘Peter, so handsome boy,’” Macca ended, affecting a rueful tone. “And just like that, I was forgotten and left behind. All the words of love, all the flattery. ‘Delight of my pussy’ gone in a flat second. Fickle, Greta was.”

“To be fair, all of the prossies loved Pete,” John added. “Loved him because he spent all his wages on ‘em.”

Paul, deep in thought, seemed to shiver. “We were so reckless back then, not careful at all. Not with ourselves, not with others. We were bastards, really.” He gave John a direct, serious look. “Maybe karma is real, and I’m…I’ve…” He gave a helpless shrug and disappeared into the kitchen again.

John turned his gaze to Dawson, whose eyes had narrowed. “Did you see that?”

“Yes. Turns on a dime, doesn’t he,” John Dawson nodded.

“Aye, like that. He’s fine and then suddenly, he’s not.”

“It’s all a process of deep trauma, John. He’s going to be like that, for a while. Maybe for a long while. But he seems to be coming along in other ways.”

“Does he, to you?” John looked away at that, pensively flicking about some bread crumbs before raising his eyes. “I know it’s a long road. And I’m… I’m tryin’. I just want him back, you know? All of him. Am I selfish to feel like I miss him?”

The big man rested his hand on Lennon’s. “Not at all, son. But you just keep doing what you’re doing. And be patient with him. And with yourself.”

“I feel guilty all the time…”

“You’ve nothing to feel guilty for, you must know that.”

John shook his head, wanting to get off the subject of himself and back to business. “But, it’s why I need you here. You haven’t seen this yet…” He [handed the florist’s card](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/61648024) to Dawson, whose eyebrows lifted nearly to his receded hairline.

“Ohh,” Dawson breathed. “Yes, I see why you wanted me to come by. Do you want me to tell him?”

“Tell me what?”

So intently had the two men been talking, they hadn’t noticed Paul bringing the coffee, and small dishes of mousse, on a small tray.

“Nothing, Macca, we’re just talking,” John started.

“It sounded like you were saying you needed to tell me something.” Paul answered, pouring carefully. “I wish you wouldn’t kid-glove me, John. If I need to know something, just say it. I won’t crumble.” He padded to Dawson’s chair, pouring again. “I mean, yeah, I _might_. A _little_. But still…tell me, alright?” He seated himself and immediately focused all of his attention on sugar cubes and milk and his own cup.

John Dawson and John Lennon shared a hesitant glance and then Lennon released a huge sigh. “Alright, then.”

Paul, his bottom lip showing a huge indent where he’d bitten down hard, raised his brows. “I’m thinkin’ this is not a time for mousse, then?”

John melted a little at that, reaching over and taking his hand. “Maybe. Maybe later, baby.”

Paul gave John’s hand a squeeze and sipped from his cup. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“Well, _see_ it, actually.” John released his hand and pulled the now worn and creased gossip bit from his pocket, handing to Paul. “You and Geo had fun the other night, but… paparazzi.”

Macca spread the paper before him, smoothing it out and then frowning. “Oh! When we got a taxi for Father Sean,” he recalled.

“Father Sean was here?” John sounded confused. “I thought it was Ritchie you were with?”

“No, Ritchie’s boy was sick, so Georgie brought the priest. S’good man.” Paul bit his lip again, leaning his head on his hand and squinting to read the small print. “God…” he muttered, seeming remarkably calm to the two men. “Says where I live outright, doesn’t it?”

“Aye, lad, it does.”

Dawson and John Lennon looked at each other, queries posed on both their faces. This was Paul’s reaction? Had the full meaning of the photo and the caption sunken in?

“Well…” Macca breathed a resigned sigh. “Not so bad, so far, aye? No one’s bothered me. Fans not troopin’ around…”

“Erm…” John shot him a guilty look. “Actually, the fans have left boxes of flowers and toys for you. Those carnations in the kitchen, that you love? Lifted ‘em from a boxful the concierge doesn’t know what to do with. Told him to given it all to residents.”

“You gave me carnations from a fan?” Paul was peering through his hand, but a little smile, to everyone’s surprise, was playing on his lips. “You stole credit for carnations that some little girl left for me? That’s shameful, John.”

John’s own smile was wavery. He couldn’t meet Paul’s eyes.

“I know. Sorry. But I mean, I knew you’d like them!”

“I do. _Absolvo_ , lovey. It’s no big crime.” Paul reached out, this time, bringing John’s hand closer. “It’s the thought that counts.”

He squinted again at the image before him. “Strange, though, innit? You wouldn’t think a paparazzo would be hanging out in Belgravia looking for a shot to sell. They’re opportunists. They go where the action is, and it ain’t here.”

“Possibly someone had seen George go into the building and put the word out.”

“Well, but then there’d be more than one camera, right?” Paul was gnawing at the skin around his nails, but Dawson was encouraged to see that, rather than falling into a panic, the lad was using his reasoning skills. A good sign, he thought. This was the lad he’d met nearly a month ago, beginning to emerge, wounded but unbowed. He shot a look at John, who was watching Paul with a worried expression on his face, and gave a discrete thumbs up.

“Unless the concierge or someone here called someone he knew,” Dawson suggested. “But given how flustered they seem down there, I’d think it unlikely.”

“It could be anyone,” Paul looked up sharply. “I mean, anyone living here might have seen Geo come in, and called a friend. I suppose to some extent I have to make peace with the notion that even here, I’m not living wholly alone. That discrete as the staff might be, some people will talk? Right?” He looked around the table for validation.

“Yes, Macca, love. There was always going to be that chance,” John agreed.

“It’s not as though we could hermetically seal you away, it’s true,” Dawson rumbled.

Paul was still ripping at his fingers, but he nodded his head. “Yeah… It’s just the world, innit?”

He looked around the table, and took a big breath. “And, you know… I’m not going to fret. I won’t. I’m secure, here, the staff below know to send no one up here.” He squeezed John’s hand and repeated it like a mantra. “I’m not going to fret.”

Dawson’s cup clattered against its saucer as he finished his coffee. Dabbing at his lips with a napkin, he looked directly at Paul. “Aye, and you _shouldn’t_ fret, lad. We’re all looking after you. But… well it’s a long-shot and perhaps not even on the board, but we should consider that perhaps you’ve been… let’s say staked out. That someone was just waiting for you to come out to take that snap?”

Paul gave Dawson a skeptical look. “At that hour? In the freezin’ cold? I don’t see it, John.” He lit a cigarette, passing the box around to the other men, who also lit up. “If anyone’d been watching for me, they’d have already figured I was tucked in for the night by that hour. No. I think this is just a thing that happened, and I’ll live with it.”

“And you’ll be more careful,” John added. “Right?”

His partner blew an impressive plume of smoke and gave him the doe eyes, purely out of habit. “Aye, love. I will.”

“That’s all very well,” John Dawson said, leaning forward. “And you may be right that, in considering every possibility, I’m become a bit paranoid for your sake, lad. But I’m sorry… happenstance aside, you do need to be aware of this, and consider the speed with which it came once that photo was published.” With one finger, as though he didn’t even want to touch the thing, he slid the card across the table.

Paul’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t reach out to pick it up.

“What is that?” The bottom lip was being gnawed at again.

John drew it nearer to Paul. “The fruit basket, love. The card had slipped behind the big fruit.”

Paul still didn’t look at it. He stared, instead, at John. “Who’s it from? The… I thought you sent that?”

“No, baby,” John’s tone was full of regret. “I just let you think it because… I’m an idiot. And there didn’t seem to be a card.” He picked it up, now, and folded Paul’s fingers around it. “But there was. And you need to read it.”

Paul’s eyes shifted from Dawson to John and back. At the detective’s nod, he finally looked down, reading the words in silence.

As soon as he finished reading it, Macca tossed it away from himself and closed his eyes tightly, rubbing his forehead with his free hand.

John rose and moved his chair next to Paul, once more pocketing the card. He began to rub his partner’s back in small circles, speaking very quietly. “They sent this as soon as they saw the picture, love. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you, but…”

“No, you had to,” Paul’s tone matched John’s, as though they were sharing a great secret. “But…”

“But what, love?”

John noticed that the hair on his Macca’s hands and wrists were standing straight up, the skin prickled. _Christ, he’s scared to death_. _And why not?_

His teeth were tearing at a nail, now, ripping it. “I don’t… I don’t want to pass out.”

“You won’t. I’m here, baby.”

“I don’t want to throw up, either.”

Dawson watched as John Lennon managed a watery smile, bringing his forehead to McCartney’s. “Well, not on me, okay? But if you need to…”

Macca seemed to simply fold up like a paper doll, his arms going around himself. John reached out, pulling him into an embrace. “I’ve got you, darling.”

“I don’t want to live like this,” the conversation continued in these soft, intimate tones. Neither of the young men seemed the least bit self-conscious before the detective.

“Don’t say that, Paul,” John murmured. “We’ll get this fixed.”

“I don’t want _you_ to have to live like this, either,” Macca continued.

“Like what, love?”

“Like this. Having to take care of an invalid. Having to hide…”

“You’re not an invalid, baby.”

“I’m good for nothing. Johnny, I should have died. You all should have let me die.”

“Stop that, Paul. Don’t even think it. We’ll find you another place, a safe place.”

“I don’t want another place, Johnny. I was… I’ve just gotten comfortable here.”

“I’ll move in with you, then!” Lennon said it firmly, in a louder voice.

Paul’s head buried in John’s shoulder, moved back and forth. “No. Wouldn’t do that to Cyn. Or to Jules. _God_.” After a huge, shuddering breath, he moved off of John, raising his darkly expressive eyes to Dawson. The young man looked so suddenly, completely hollowed out.

“John Dawson, I can’t… I don’t want to live if this is how it’s going to be. Can’t we find them? I don’t… I can’t. _Again_. Can we take fingerprints off this card? Can’t we do something?”

“No, boy,” Dawson sounded nearly as tender as John, from across the table, but his eyes were shrewd on the lad. “Card’s been handled too much. But I’ll inquire at the shop that delivered it, perhaps get a description. If the chap has an account, he might even have slipped up and put it on a tab. Then we’ll have a name.”

“A name? That’s brilliant,” John enthused. “Do you think they’d tell you?”

“Look at this mug,” Dawson indicated his face. “Says ‘Copper’ all over it. And if they won’t talk to me, they’ll talk to the others.” He looked at Paul again. The lad seemed to be shivering, but he was sitting up, leaning less on John, who was – for the third time – gently pulling Macca’s fingers away from his mouth. A thumb, Dawson noted, was bleeding outright. “Feel alright, Paul?”

Paul looked up from below his lashes. He seemed a picture of perfect vulnerability, but his words were direct and to the point.

“They’re going to kill me, aren’t they, John Dawson? They think I’m a rabbit and they’re on a chase.”

John gasped, grabbing at his wrist. “Paulie, no! No, baby, don’t even think that.”

Dawson, never one to offer pacification in a serious situation, cleared his throat and thought, _just this once_. “It’s possible, you know, son, that they’re simply trying to torment you. They know you are protected, that the palace has an interest here. They must know that Chalice is in prison and could still identify them, at some point.”

“So, you’re saying…” Paul gulped hugely, still in that strangely lucid state. “You’re saying they’re… what? _Gloating?_ Just trying to haunt me?”

“Maybe,” John Dawson said, nodding as thought to convince the room. “Trying to keep you scared and wounded, because they feel powerful, like they have something on you.”

“Well, _fuck_ them, then.”

The words were flung out almost malevolently and both Dawson and Lennon looked at each other, mouths agape. Paul stood once more, his whole body seeming to vibrate with some combination of terror and pure, unalloyed rage. “ _Fuck_ them,” he repeated. Looking down at his place, he ran a hand through his hair, huffing like a bull as he seemed to be considering something. With a sudden, furious grimace he swept his place setting from the table, sending plates and glasses shattering against the floor and walls. “Maybe I should just go out there -- just go out into the street and tell it,” he seethed through gritted teeth. A muscle in his jaw was jumping wildly.

“I’ll just… I’ll just go shout it out. Let them know they’ll never have me again! That I’m no shrinking rabbit they can play with. That I’m a clever fucking fox, and I’ll find a way to escape. I’ll outsmart them.”

He was pacing now, lighting another cigarette and walking back and forth beside the table, kicking aside the shards of glass and china, arms around his shoulders and fury in his eyes. “They think they have me holed up here? Like they’re a bunch of red-coated fuckers trapping a defenseless wee beastie, who they know will stay hidden until the dogs flush me out? Well, I’m not givin’ ‘em that. I’ll call the dogs! I’ll call the papers and tell ‘em the whole story!”

“Paul!” John was shocked. “Calm down, babe, that’s… that’s not the answer.”

“I’ll be damned if it’s not,” Macca’s eyes spat fire at John. “They’re counting on me wanting to protect my name, my reputation, the band. That’s where their power is. But if I tell it all, they’ve nothing.” He braced himself on the table with both hands, leaning in and giving both men a look that seemed all too eager. “Maybe we’ve been thinkin’ on this all wrong. Why am I hiding? I’m not the criminal, here! I’m not a fucking rapist, am I? Why should my life be destroyed over something wicked that came to me?”

“Lad, I think you’re overcorrecting,” Dawson started. “This is not a society that—I’ll get that,” he interrupted himself as the buzzer went off. He rose to answer it, gesturing for John to remain with Paul.

Paul didn’t seem to have heard him. He was still ranting, leaning further in, getting into John’s face. “And if I tell the papers about this, the fans, the press, they’ll all demand that these men be found, that every plug be pulled in finding them out. Then _they_ become the hunted. _They_ become the rabbits, tremblin’ in their little warrens, scared of being ripped to shreds. And I…” Paul smiled in a way John had never seen before, and it chilled him to his marrow. “ _I become the wolf_. And I’ll tear them down off their high horses, and then I’ll fucking devour them, John. I will.”

John, reached out, grabbing at Paul’s arm. “Love, you’re… you need to calm down. I know you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared!” Paul shouted, heat rolling off of him. He pulled his arm from John’s grasp and began to pace again. “Or if I’m scared, I’m too furious to care. This _must end_ , John. I have to have some control over my own life. And if it takes destroyin’ everything, blowin’ it all up, then that’s what I’ll do. If someone’s gotta die for this to be finished, then maybe that happens, too. Even if it’s me!”

Dawson, having told the concierge to allow him up, stood by the door awaiting Brian’s arrival and listening to Macca rant. _The poor boy,_ he thought to himself. _He’s brilliant and terrified and nearly out of control._

Epstein entered the flat to the sounds of Paul McCartney announcing “I want a fucking drink,” at the top of his lungs, and John Lennon trying to sound reasonable, but only managing to sound tense. “Alright, love, that’s a better idea, I’ll get it for you.”

“I’m get my own fucking drink! You don’t have to wait on me, like I’m a cripple!”

Brian’s eyes grew round and he immediately lowered his voice. “What’s… going on?”

“The lad’s… he’s having a bad moment.” Pulling Eppy back by the elbow, he explained the matter as succinctly as he could, and as quietly as possible. Brian’s face fell and he nearly burst into tears, as he learned about the card and realized the renewed threat before Paul. Before all of them.

“He was sounding strong for a minute, but now he’s saying he wants to go to the papers and tell it all, so they’ll leave him alone.”

“He can’t do that! It will ruin them!” Eppy was already wringing his hands. “It will follow him around for the rest of his life.”

“He’s also saying maybe he doesn’t want to live anymore.”

“Oh, Christ! That’s bad.”

“Aye, it is.”

The entered the dining room in time to see Paul slamming a glass down on the bar and pouring out what must be his second scotch. “I’m going to do it, John,” he was calling over his shoulder, “And nothing you can say will sway me.”

John – wisely, Dawson thought – had decided not to resist his partner in his rage. “Perhaps you’re right, love. If you tell it, it’s over. And if it hurts the band-”

“It shouldn’t hurt the band. It’s nothing to do with the band,” Paul shouted, still not completely in control of himself. “And you know, I think the band has enough good-will all over the world to withstand it. I think the world will come down on our side, they’ll demand justice.”

“Paul…” John ran out of steam. _How do I agree with that? It’s a happy fantasy, but..._ “Sure, the world will rally around us,” he tried. “Maybe you’re right, but…" Nope, he couldn't manage it. “And maybe we _won’t_ have to read about you being gang raped in every article and every review we read for the rest of our lives.”

Once he caught that thought, John’s own fears began to run with it, quickly unspooling all possible scenarios like a dark thread. “And maybe Jane won’t have to answer questions about whether you’re still a man, or if she’d ever marry you, now. And maybe me and Geo and Ritchie won’t have to answer any questions about whether you’ve changed at all, or if we still feel the same about you.”

He gentled his tone, just a bit, thinking he was sounding too harsh. “You know how the press is, Paul. In the end they’re nobody’s friend, just a pack of jackals out to feed. And think of it. Old Jim hounded by the press at his home; your dad and brother having to answer whether they thought you’d been asking for it, after all. And you know damn well they’ll imply it.”

He witnessed the moment he got through to his partner, but it was not a happy victory. Paul’s shoulders fell, as did his head. He was still at the bar, his back to John, but now a strangled sound came from the lad, a high, uncontrolled moan, wrenched from him. His shoulders heaved as he began to cry.

“Baby…” John rushed to him, pulling him into his arms and rocking him as he held him tight. “Love. It’s okay.”

The younger man murmured something wetly into John’s shoulder, and John winced. “No, Paul, you don’t mean that. You don’t want to die. Never say that.”

The sound of defeat, of utter distress kept coming, a ramble of words, whose sound carried enough to worry the two older men, Eppy and Dawson, as they watched the sorry scene before their eyes. “No,” they heard John insist. “I need you to live.”

Brian coughed discreetly, and John looked their way, helpless despair all over him. Brian reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled two joints.

“Oh, thank God, yes,” John breathed. “Macca, baby. Look. Look you,” he softly encouraged. “Eppy’s brought us a present.”

***

John Dawson hated the smell of marijuana, just hated it. “In my day, we chewed it,” he reminded John as he wrinkled his nose and refused a turn on the joint, passing it on to Brian. Still, he couldn’t deny the soothing effect the drug was having on Paul McCartney, who was lounged halfway on John’s lap as he took deep drag after deep drag.

“I’m not going to kill myself, probably,” the young man said in a thoughtful tone.

“I’ll kill you if you do,” John agreed.

“Me da wouldn’t like it.”

“Fuck yer da, mate, I wouldn’t like it.”

“Not fuckin’ me da, Johnny. That’s off.”

Dawson smiled to himself. “I think I’m making a bit of tea,” he offered, rising. “Anyone else?”

“There’s mousse!” Paul drawled. “Can we have mousse?”

The effect of the pot lasted a little while, but after downing the dessert, and most of the biscuits in the house, Paul was on his feet again. Pacing had recommenced and he was playing with his hands, anxiously. “We should go out,” he said, unexpectedly. “I need out.”

“We’re stayin’ in, love,” John told him. “It’s fucking cold out.”

“Let’s go to the pub! I want to show them they can’t keep me here. I’ll not be their trembling bunny.”

“Nay, you’re a great wolf, we’ve established that. But we don’t need you out there howlin’ at the moon just yet.”

Paul stopped pacing, setting a dark eye on his partner. “Don’t mock me, John.”

“Baby, I’m not. Come here. Come sit with me.”

“Can’t. Gotta keep moving.”

“Paul,” Eppy offered. “Maybe you should take one of these.” He fished a red capsule from a small box. “I take one when I’m feeling anxious.”

“What is that,” Macca asked warily.

“Just a little relaxant. It won’t hurt you.”

“Not sure that’s wise, with the drink and the reefer,” John Dawson cautioned.

“Nay, I’m not havin’ it,” Paul told him. “Never much liked pills.”

“You took to the Prellie’s alright in Hamburg,” John reminded him with a scoff.

“To get through a twelve-hour night,” Paul corrected him, his mood suddenly going very sour. “And I never gulped ‘em down like you did, as though they were sweets.”

John opened his mouth to respond and caught a look from Dawson. He shut it, hunkering down in his seat. “Macca, come on, come sit.”

“Paulie, lad,” Brian piped up. “Why not give us a bit of music, then? I made sure the piano was tuned. How about a bit of that tune you’ve been working on, the pretty one?”

Lennon latched on to the idea. “Aye, baby, why don’t you play something. That always sets you right,”

“I don’t need to be ‘set right’, like some bleedin’ statue or milk pitcher, you know,” Paul sneered.

“Just give us a song, then you growlin’ old thing, you,” John sneered back.

Paul looked about the room, noting that all were nodding in agreement. Opening the instrument, his face fell into an expression of longing as he slid a finger across the keys.

“Go on, play, son,” John Dawson encouraged. “I’ve never heard you on a piano.”

Paul sat on the bench, but shook his head no. “Can’t.”

“Sure you can…”

“Can’t remember any songs.”

John stood, his step mildly unsteady and sat beside him. “Geo said you played the other night, a little.”

“I was pissed.”

“And now you’re stoned. Same thing. C’mon, a short one, then, Paul. For me?”

When Paul didn’t move Lennon began to try some chords. He settled in and in a moment the room recognized John’s song -- his for Paul, his declaration -- though only the two younger men knew that.

 _“There are places I remember,”_ he began. _“All my life, though some have changed.”_

He looked at Paul, tossing his head in invitation. _“Some forever, not for better_ …come on, babe, give me the harmony. _Some are gone, and some remain…_ ” He continued moving through the song while Paul simply watched his hands striking chord after chord, his mouth resolutely closed.

 _“But of all these friends and lovers,”_ John sang out, still staring at Paul, hoping to draw him in, “ _there is no one compares with you._ _And these memories lose their meaning, when I think of love as something new…”_

“Stop”, Paul murmured, his eyes closing at the lyrics, so full of meaning and meant only for him. “Stop, John.”

“Why, baby?” Lennon asked the question gently as his hands slipped into the next chord.

With a shocking furor, Paul was suddenly smashing the ivory keys, using his fists like hammers, pounding on the instrument as though he wanted to destroy it. The discordant, crashing noise rang through the room, as a distraught Macca went at it, battering the keyboard and yelling above the noise as though he were throwing himself into battle. Abruptly, he stood, and John was lucky to get his hands out of the way before the keyboard cover came crashing down.

“Are you _playing_ with me,” he ranted at his partner, who could only look shocked and confused. “Are you – are you are _blaming_ me, singin’ that to me when you know, I’m--”

“Macca, what? What _now?”_ The plea was earnest and plaintive. “What have I _done?”_ John felt completely helpless in the face of this new mood.

“You… you sing that, like it’s real, when I— _you_ … you’re trying to torment me because I can’t, I _can’t.”_ Paul launched one more blow to the piano, using both hands.

“I say there will be _no more songs!”_ He bellowed, rushing from the room and slamming the bedroom door behind him.

The silence reverberated as fully as the crashing piano had minutes earlier, as the three men left behind simply stared at each other with wide, disbelieving eyes wide. John had never seen Paul so enraged, or so violent.

“Should I go to him,” he said, nearly whispering it. He looked down and noted his hands were trembling.

“I’d let him be, son,” Dawson counselled. “Give him a little room to think about what he’s just done.”

“He’s not going to hurt himself, is he?” Brian’s question once again stilled the room, until John rose. _“Fuck,”_ he muttered, as he quickly traced Paul’s steps and tried the door. It wasn’t locked. John slipped in, closing it softly behind him.

Brian let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “This is madness,” he said to Dawson.

The bigger man rose and began picking up used tea cups and plates. “This is rape,” he said softly, “when a victim feels out of options.”

“But… he wants to go to the press? Really? We can’t let that happen.”

Dawson straighten up, heaving a sigh full of doubt. “No… probably not.”

When Brian left an hour later, having not again seen John or Paul, he was unsettled and wondering if what might best serve Macca (and the band) was some sort of committal to a place where the boy could get some help. Perhaps just for a few weeks, and away from Britain. The Swiss had some very good clinics, he knew. _A place where he’s under a bit of supervision, and with no ready access to telephones_ , he’d thought. _Or razors._ No way to kill the band with a headline, or kill himself with a primed edge of steel. Eppy shuttered as he made it to his car. _Good Christ, this is a nightmare._

Later, John Dawson, having put the flat to rights, was in the guest bedroom sorting out his things when he heard the door to the other bedroom open. There was a soft tap on his door and he opened it to find John standing there, looking a bit worse for wear.

“Is he alright?”

“He’s… quieter. I talked him into taking a bath,” John said.

“That’s good,” Dawson said. “I hope you cleared out anything he could use…”

“I’m not sure what to--” John’s attention was suddenly turned. “ _Paul?_ I thought you were taking a bath?”

Paul McCartney stood before them both, stark naked and looking dazed, soap bubbles sliding down his wet limbs. “I didn’t know where you went.”

“I’m right here, baby.”

“I’m thirsty.”

John turned to Dawson, his eyes stricken, as though he had no idea what to do.

“Of course, you’re thirsty,” the detective agreed. “The wine at dinner, the drinks, the kif. Drains a lad doesn’t it?” With great tenderness, he slipped an arm over the younger man’s shoulders. “Come, let’s get you some water and John will bring your robe and slippers, yeah? You don’t want to catch a chill.”

“Okay,” Paul allowed himself to be led, as docile as a child. “Can we play cards, too?”

“Of course, love. That sounds like a good idea.”

And that’s how the rest of the night had gone, John remembered as he lay there, now, using his hand to keep the morning sun off Paul’s face, so as not to awaken him. Up and down, loud and soft, happy and tearful, hour after manic-filled hour until, exhausted and feeling completely at a loss John had – with a very reluctant nod from the old copper – opened the red pill Brian had left behind into a glass of coke Paul had been nursing. A quarter hour later, his poor Macca was asleep -- carried to bed and lain down in his robe by a huffing, concerned John Dawson.

“Da?” Paul had murmured from his depths. _“Daddy?”_

Dawson stroked his hair with great tenderness. “Sleep, son. Rest you. We’re here.”

“John.” Paul had sighed, settling into his pillow. His lights were finally, fully out.

“Thank you,” John had whispered, extending a trembling hand to Dawson, who simply pulled the frightened young man into an embrace. “We’ll get him some help, lad,” he said, not knowing that Brian had had the same thought. “I’ll look into it.”


	34. DAYS 3 & 4: What We Did Last Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Paul awake and have the sort of beautiful morning together that they'd been missing since the rape. A lovely morning after a night of surprises -- all of them good -- that has left Paul feeling more settled, and more free, than he could have expected. And John feels it, too, but not without worries and not all of them regarding Paul, who seems to be re-establishing his habit of compartmentalizing. Is that really a good thing, though? Lots of fluff and love in this chapter; we all NEED it and DESERVE it (as do our boys) but don't relax too much. Paul still needs help, and how and where he gets it will cause some resentments along the way.

John felt a gentle hand pushing his fringe from his forehead. He felt soft lips leave a tender kiss there, and blinked himself awake.

Paul was smiling at him, his eyes warm with affection. Love. “Hey there, Johnny. Good morning.”

He smiled back. “Good morning, love.”

The two men simply lay there, face to face, smiling.

“I’ve been watching you sleep,” Paul said, reaching over to lace his own fingers through John’s.

“Have you, why?” John asked, wriggling his fingers, too.

“Because I like to, you know. Always have. Can’t think of how many times I’ve watched you sleep, looking so blameless. No frown, no fear, just Johnny, in all his sweetness. For maybe the millionth time I was thinking that if the world could see you when you slept, they’d have a whole different opinion of John Lennon."

"They would, would they?"

"Yes, hon. Because they wouldn’t see you as acerbic or tough or cynical. They’d see what I see, what I love; the face of a boy who is so innocent he thinks he can tell the world all about who he is and what he feels, and that the world will meet him there – will care about his ideas and his fancies and all of his beautiful wondering. The dreaming little boy who never stops dreaming even when the world doesn’t get it, or tells him to give it up. If they could see you when you’re lost amid those dreams, your face so open and free, they’d understand you like I do.”

 _No one could ever understand me like you do,_ John couldn't help but think. _Only you..._

Paul continued to play with his partner’s hair, tucking a stray lock behind an ear. “You need a trim, love. You’ve been looking after me so closely, you’re not looking after you.”

John closed his eyes and let loose a long sigh, a small smile playing at his lips. Christ, it had been so long. Maybe it had only been a month in reality, but it _felt_ like forever -- so incredibly fucking long – since Paul had awoken like this, so soft and tender, with the light touches and the sweet words.

No one had ever been tender with John, the way Paul could be tender. Cyn was loving, yes, but Paul… Paul was soft with John Lennon. Soft the way the Lennon needed soft. Soft enough to see him all the way down to the place where he was still so small and needy. Soft, not so much like a lover… more like a parent.

 _Parental_ softness, that’s what Paul had always brought to John in these sorts of mornings, and in a way no one else ever had, not as far as he could recall. Something that was doting and custodial and a little adoring. Unashamedly, so.

God, it felt good. It felt like home. _Paul, my home, finally showing up again after so long_. More often than not their mornings used to be like this, full of the shining eyes, the words so sweet they would be almost too gooey coming from anyone else, syrupy and sentimental and therefore too much to be believed. John would have pushed it all away with both hands, feeling sheepish or distrustful, or fearful that someone wanted something of him.

But not from Paul. Never from Paul. John knew there was no agenda behind Paul’s cooing, that he wanted nothing from his partner that he didn’t already have; that he meant what he said because he needed to say it, needed to be loving, needed to gush about his love. Because if John Lennon was the little boy in search of a parent to fill the deep hole in his heart, Paul McCartney was, in many ways, the natural parent in search of a worthy place to pour out that overflow of affection he’d always carried with him, along with the enthusiastic instinct to nurture and encourage that would have made him such a brilliant teacher, had he gone that route.

 _That did make him a brilliant teacher,_ John corrected the thought. But to just one student who needed the one teacher. _Brought it all to me, didn’t he? The tuning, the chords, the songwriting. The love. Never threw his pearls before swine. Never gave his trust away lightly. But he saw me, saw my ache, and my need, and my potential, and he fuckin’ answered all of it. I’d be dead by now if not for him, knifed in a pub brawl somewhere or rotting in jail._

He was relishing the feel of Paul’s rough fingertips carding through his hair, tracing his eyebrows and down his nose, before leaning in to place yet another light kiss to his head. _Paulie, my love… you’re back. A little. You’re a little more yourself, and I’ll take it, I’ll take it. I’ve missed you, missed this so much._

He had taken it for granted, he now realized – had stopped wading in this giant pool of Paulie-in-the-morning, tender, and giving and adoringly parental. He’d stopped wondering at it. Now, having lived without it, he knew better. _Won’t make that mistake again. Will never take him for granted, because there is no one like him. Period, full stop. My love…_

“Hmm?”

Sunken so deeply into his bliss, John had missed what Paul said.

“I said I’m glad we did what we did last night. Are you?”

“I am. Yes.”

“It makes everything feel different this morning, doesn’t it?”

John wasn’t sure what he might mean. “Different how, love?”

“Well,” Paul shifted a little, snuggling into his pillow, an unusually contented look on his face. “I just feel like… I’m more _settled_ , you know? Like when we’ve been on tour for too long and we finally put down the luggage that’s gotten too heavy. And then we let out a breath because we’re so glad to put it down, so glad to just be home, yeah? Like that. I feel _settled_.”

His brows lowered in worry and the small light that had been showing in his eyes seemed to dim. “Unless… do you feel differently? Am I – do I seem presumptuous to you in using that word, when so much between us is still so up in the air?”

“Presumptuous?” John gave him a reassuring smile and soothed Paul’s brow with the back of one finger. “No, baby, you’re never that, why would you ever worry about that? And you’re quite right; you said it well. We carried that luggage for a very long time. It was good to finally put it down. And I was proud of you to do it. _Am_ proud of you, still. Always.” He raised their joined hands, kissing his partner’s. “And nothing is up in the air, love. We’re not having sex just now, but otherwise everything else is settled, isn’t it? Has been for a long time. For always?”

 _For always? Settled for always?_ Paul studied John’s face, still so relaxed and open, and decided not to ruin the moment. He knew everything wasn’t settled, that things really were still “up in the air” and that sooner or later they’d come crashing down. He’d noticed John’s qualifier, “just now” and decided to forgive it because in John’s world it probably seemed harmless, but Paul still had no idea how they could ever be sexual together. And the rest of it… the band. The songwriting, the recording, the touring – how long could those things stay stashed away in the clouds before they’d have to be, finally, brought down and dealt with, too? Until they were… _settled._

But he let it go. For now, they were having a beautiful morning together – the sort of morning that would have led to lovemaking, before… _before_. It was a morning that had been too long coming, and they both needed it too badly, so Paul buried his thoughts for the moment. “For today, we won’t think about that,” he told himself. And then, “It feels good to be able to pack something away, again. Deal with it later.” He’d always been so good at that, at compartmentalizing things, tying them up and putting them away for another time. The attack… _the rape_ , it had made everything – every thought and feeling – seem so overwhelming and so immediate that he’d forgotten how to do it. Even last night, there had been a moment where it all felt like too much and he had begun to feel so small and afraid.

But -- and maybe it was because the morning had begun so well -- he could do this little bit just now; push the sex questions and the band questions into a closet and shut the door on it all, at least for today, at least for this morning, in exchange for this fresh, precious moment with John.

“Yesterday,” John murmured, playing with Paul’s fingers. “It was a really good day.”

“It was. I want more of them.”

“They’ll come, love.”

“D’you think?”

“I do.” John’s voice was low and reassuring. “We’ll learn how to bring them about, more and more.”

Against every expectation, the previous day – and most especially the nighttime – really _had_ been good. John had awoken to Paul sleeping deeply, and that had developed into an extended lie-in for the lad. Whatever it was that Brian was taking to “relax” himself, a single dose of it had knocked Macca out until the afternoon, and while Paul had slept, John and Dawson had shuffled about the kitchen, making coffee and eating cereal and speaking in low, worried tones about the night before – the strange mania that had gripped Paul for hours after he’d learned about the fruit basket, his mood swinging from defiant, to fearful; angry to childlike; flippant to defiant again. “We will need to get some help for him,” Dawson had said. John, hating the idea, silently nodded over his toast. “Never in a million years ever thought Paul would be the one needed help. Figured it would be me, if anyone; I’ve always had one foot in the loony bin, haven’t I?”

“Well…I’m sure that’s not true,” Dawson said, his face grim. “But I’m equally sure you never in a million years thought he’d be… taken apart as he has been. Need to be put back together.”

“No,” Lennon agreed. “The fuckers. Paul…” John looked up. “He was always right in his head. And so… so freaking strong. Strong willed, strong minded. When he followed me out of that bath last night, and looked so confused…”

His voice trailed off at the unsettling memory. He shook his head, taking a huge breath and closing his eyes, bringing himself under control. “Will I ever get him back?” He looked up, his eyes pleading the question. “Will I? The whole way back?”

Dawson’s eyes were full of sympathy, both for Paul, and all that was yet before him, and for John, to whom he could not possibly give an answer.

“It’s hard to predict. He’s been severely traumatized, so it’s understandable, both his wreckage and your wondering about it. And rape trauma…” he mused. “It’s hard enough for women. They get slandered; they’re tossed aside. They question themselves and whether they were ‘asking’ for it. For a man? There’s all that, plus the rest of it – the ‘is he still a man’ of it. Even if he’s not saying, John, you can be sure our Paul is thinking it, worrying over it. He is very lucky to have you, you know. You’ve not treated him like that…”

“It’s not luck,” John scoffed. “If anyone’s lucky, it’s me. My lucky day was the one when I met him. And every day since, even though I’ve been too stupid to see it.”

“I wish I’d met him before this,” the copper mused. “The little I gleaned of him before he got sick… I could see that in him, the strength, the strong will you mentioned. I’m sure it’s all still there, you know. But trauma…it’s tricky,” he repeated, as though trying to gather a specific thought.

“The day I met him,” John said, getting up to refresh both their coffees. “He was this 15 year-old -- and _just_ fifteen, mind you. A month earlier he’d been _fourteen_. With a spangled white jacket and a pink carnation on the lapel. And the _face_.” He laughed as he sat down again. “Bloody fucking angel. He was a beautiful little Irish Elvis, still not full-grown, just getting past the baby fat. And feckin’ brilliant.” John shook his head, thinking back. “Minute I saw him, something in me just… _recognized_ him. I felt like, ‘Well, here you are, Lenny, your whole life’s just shown up. Here comes the rest of your life’.”

“You were as struck as that?” Dawson wondered, “And himself walking the streets of Liverpool dressed so nattily? A bold thing.”

“You have no idea.” John smiled. “All the bleedin’ confidence I put on for show? He had it even back then, for real, and in spades. We had a mutual friend, Ivy, who’d brought him down to see my skiffle band play a church fete. We weren’t very good, but we were a band. Macca came by with his guitar and watched. When we met later, I asked him what thought and he just got this look, like --” John’s whole tone and demeanor grew soft with the affection of memory. “Little rat bastard wasn’t going to give anything away. Just looked me in the eye and said, ‘You’re alright.’ Get that? _Alright_ , he said.”

Dawson chucked. “You’re painting a picture and I can see it so well…”

“So, I see the guitar he’s carryin’ and ask if he plays. He looks down at it, like he’s never seen it before and shrugs. ‘I’m alright.’”

The cop gave a hoot of appreciation. “That’s attitude.”

“Then he swings it over his shoulder and cranks out _Twenty Flight Rock_ like a pro, all the lyrics, all the chords down cold, and with that, that --” John sighed. “That _voice_. Clear as a bell, sweet and smooth as a custard. Gobsmacked, I was. We all were.”

“And that was that?” Dawson summed it up. “You were together?”

John shrugged. “Musically, that was that. The rest of it came a bit later. He was really _young_ , you know.”

“Glad to hear you’re no cradle-robber, anyway.”

“No, I was a good boy,” John agreed. “I waited for him.” His lips pursed as he considered. “Maybe good practice, since I’m going to have to wait again. I should remember that, when the going gets tough. As I know it will, because I’m a selfish bastard.”

“You’re not so bad,” Dawson’s deep voice had a soothing note. “You’re a better man, I think, than you realize.”

“That shows all you know,” John answered back. “I didn’t say I didn’t lust after him. I just waited until you know… he was a bit older. Less boyish, I guess.” John sighed. “God, he just got more and more beautiful. He still is. I can’t even guess what he’s going to look like when he’s thirty. Here,” he reached into his pocket, hauling out his wallet. “When I took this shot, I thought he’d never look better. I was wrong, as I have realized daily.” He fished a photo from its depths, handing it to Dawson. “Still my favorite shot of him, though. So far.”

John Dawson’s gasp came out before he could stop it borne on a jolt of something instinctive and lusty. “Good _Christ!”_

__

Before him was Paul McCartney, his age indeterminate thanks to the grainy photo, but perhaps twenty or twenty-one, wearing dark swim trunks and looking a little bit cold, his broad shoulders narrowing down to trim hips and long, long legs. Legs so beautiful any bird would love to have them, but without the fur, for the lad was surprisingly hirsute in the limbs. A swimmer’s limbs. With the dark hair. _All so like my Neddy_. Except _hairy_.

John Lennon watched the cop study Paul’s photo with a sharp bite of jealousy gnawing at his stomach. He suppressed it as unworthy. “That’s from a couple of years ago,” he said, reaching to reclaim the snapshot. “Our first trip to Miami in ’64.”

“An utterly gorgeous young man,” Dawson sighed, lingering another moment on the image before handing it back. He had the good sense not to add that Paul was just his type. Paul might have laughed when he said it, but John, Dawson knew, would fail to see the humor. And perhaps understandably, so.

“Aye,” John agreed, taking a second to appreciate the photo again, himself, before slipping it back into his billfold. “And he’s only getting better every year. And I’m getting… fatter, and more blind.”

“I’m sure that’s not true, you look very fit,” Dawson assured him. “And I think in that lad’s heart, if I may say so, John, the sun rises and sets on you and would no matter your weight or your glasses.”

John looked up, unable to hide his smile. “Yeah… maybe you’re right.”

“I am quite sure of it. And now,” Dawson rose. “I’m going to take advantage of his slumber to visit the florist and see if we can find out who sent that damn fruit basket.”

“Take it with you and toss it out,” John told him. “We’ll not eat a bite of it, and Paul doesn’t need the reminder.”

Dawson had passed the basket on to the concierge, suggesting he put out a bowl for passing residents to pick from.

The trip to the florist, unfortunately, had been unsuccessful.

“I saw the receipt. Paid in cash,” Dawson announced when he’d returned, “And apparently not a regular, there.” The detective came bearing prepared sandwiches and a mixed bouquet meant for his own quarters (“Couldn’t resist”, he blushed). He intended to head back after lunch, needing to reach out to the palace-backed investigators on several points, including Paul’s emotional health.

“Brian’s called,” Lennon informed him. “Thinks we should look at some of those Swiss clinics for Paul. He’s made a few inquiries.”

Dawson nodded sadly. “May not have much choice,” he sighed. “Poor lad.”

It was then they heard the loo flush and Paul shuffling down the hallway and into the kitchen, looking remarkably better than he had the previous night. He made a beeline to John, kissing his cheek and then did the same to a surprised Dawson.

“What’s to eat,” he asked, immediately zeroing in on the sandwiches and asking for a glass of milk.

John poured it out while peering at him discretely. “How do you feel, babe?”

“Much better for the sleep, thanks love.”

“Well you look it,” Dawson said, taking a seat at his side and studying him with a knowledgeable eye.

“Been thinking,” Paul scratched at his face as he chewed.

“In your sleep?” John teased.

“ _Shurrup,”_ he smirked, teasing back. “I was, though. Thinkin’ in my sleep, maybe.” He swallowed and took a long drink of milk. “I think I’m stayin’ here. I’m not moving again. Won’t be chased out of here by them.”

He didn’t need to specify. His tone, though, rather than suggesting that combination of panicked rebellion they’d heard the night previous, was quiet and reasonable. There was no mention of hunters or rabbits or wolves.

“Are you sure about that,” Dawson wondered, his own meal forgotten.

“Aye. I am, John Dawson. I like it here. And I think if I’m careful… you know, I can always hire my own security. To keep an eye on all the comings and goings and for if I want to go out.”

“That’s true,” John said in a careful tone. “We’ve none of us ever used private security before, though. Do you think you’ll be comfortable with it?”

Paul shrugged, sounding almost fresh-mouthed in his reply. “I’ll have to get comfortable with it, won’t I? Small price to pay, seems to me.”

“I think it’s a good idea for all of you to have some personal security, you know, at least while these men are still unknown to us,” Dawson nodded as he picked up his meal. “I actually said that to you, if you recall, even before Paul got sick.”

Lennon grunted something unintelligible. He hated the idea. Their privacy was already so intruded upon and a security detail was just another set of eyes and ears to worry about – another source for the gossip pages. But, he supposed, there was no getting past it. Macca, at the very least, would need something to support him if he meant to remain here. Until he was off to Switzerland, or wherever.

“Also,” Paul announced, “I think it’s time, Johnny. I want to bring Geo and Ringo here and tell them. About us. Tonight.” He turned to Dawson. “You’re welcome too, John, of course.”

“What,” Lennon said, feeling slightly stunned. “ _Now?_ Now you want to tell the lads we’re a couple? With so much going on?”

His mouth full, Paul simply nodded, looking slightly amused at both men.

“I think, son, that one Lennon-McCartney coming-out is enough for any man,” Dawson gave a deep chuckle. “So, if you don’t mind, I’ll beg off. You can give me the footnotes on how it went, after.”

John was studying his partner, who was eating like he’d been denied sustenance for a month. “Why _now_ ,” he asked in a plaintive voice. “Why all of a sudden?”

“S’not sudden,” Paul shook his head, reaching for a pickle. “Been thinkin’ about it ever since… well, ever since we thought about it before. You know, before the hospital.”

“Where you were unconscious for half of it!”

“Aye. Seems I think well when I’m unconscious.”

Paul’s placidity, so distant from the previous evening’s furor, was confusing enough to start annoying John, and Paul saw it. He knew him so well.

“Look, love,” Macca said, reaching out and encircling Lennon’s wrist. “When I woke up just now, and I realized Dawson would still be here, I felt really good. And you know why? Not because he’s a copper, or because he’s like… security. But because he knows all about us, and so… I knew as I was puttin’ on my robe that there was no need to prepare my head, no reason to put on a face or watch what I said or did – no reason not to give you a morning kiss!”

“Or even me,” Dawson gurgled.

“Or even the big cop,” Paul smiled at Lennon, tossing his head at the detective.

John shook his head, his lips twitching as he held back a smile. Fucking Macca! Last night he was scaring him half to death; this morning he was all but charming the pants off him, as only he could.

“ _I want more_ ,” Paul was saying. “I like it that Brian knows, and Dawson. I like that we can be comfortable around them, like we were. Layin’ on each other while we smoked --”

“You remember that do you,” John interjected, surprised Macca remembered anything of the night before.

“And I want to be that comfortable with Geo and Ritchie,” Paul finished. “They’re our best mates, our brothers. I want to be able to, you know. Kiss you if it feels right. Get a hug from you, if I need it.” His big, honey-brown eyes seemed even bigger as they searched John’s for understanding.

John did understand. From the moment the ambulance had arrived at the hotel, he’d done almost nothing to hide his feelings for Paul, not from the doctors and nurses, not from old Jim McCartney, or Jane – hell, he hadn’t really tried to hide it from Cynthia, for that matter. He’d claimed a right to be with Paul, bathe him, shave him -- feed him, even -- and worried not a whit about what anyone thought, and there had been something freeing, even empowering, in all of it. 

But, in hindsight, he considered that he was permitted to get away with it because the situation was so dire, because all of them were so emotional. Because it seemed almost natural that Paul’s greatest friend and partner would claim some sort of custodial rights over him.

And there had been no actual words. John may have declared himself in his actions, but deeds undertaken in crisis are always given more leeway than in ordinary times. Now, Paul wanted to speak the words, tell Georgie and Richie that yes, they were partners in more than songwriting, that they were lovers and had been for -- well, since before Ritchie knew they existed, anyway.

 _Funny, that,_ John had thought. _When we were fuckin’ each other into the hotel walls, we didn’t tell ‘em. Now that we’re sad and celibate… Why is life always so bleedin’ ironic, anyway?_

He expressed the thought, or nearly the thought, out loud. “All these years of traveling together and hoping they didn’t figure it out,” he said, so quietly he surprised himself. “And now… you just want to _say_ it?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they already knew,” John Dawson spoke up before Paul could. “You were all for Paul while he was sick, and everyone saw it.”

“He was?” Paul asked.

“Did they comment on it?” John asked at the same time.

“No one said anything to me,” Dawson answered, hiding his amusement behind his mustache. “But I saw the eyebrows going up. And yes,” he turned to Paul. “He _was_. No wife was ever more worried about a husband than John was for you. Or a better advocate.”

“M’not a _wife_ ,” John sounded put out.

“Alright, well, no husband was ever more worried about a wife.”

“M’not a wife, _either,_ ” Paul sounded even more put out.

“And no husband was ever more worried,” Dawson drew it out, cajoling them until the younger men chuckled, “about a… _husband_. How’s that?”

“Alright, alright, cop,” John laughed. He turned to Paul and sighed, taking his hand and giving him an indulgent look. “If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure, Johnny.”

“Well, I’m heading home,” Dawson said, dabbing at his lips with a napkin as he rose and collected his hat, coat and flowers. “But do you know, I think this is a very good idea Paul has, John, and I’m glad you’re agreeing.”

“Oh, are you,” John rolled his eyes as they all walked to the door. “And why’s that you big washerwoman?”

Dawson gasped out a surprised chuckle. “Because it’s like Paulie said, isn’t it? If he really needs you – needs to feel your hand, or needs a kiss… you can give him what he needs, what you _want_ to be able to do for him as his lover. Or vice versa, you know. Particularly right now, as we’re all helping him through things… you _both_ could use as much freedom as you can get to be there for each other.”

John frowned. “Who said you could call him _‘Paulie’?”_ It came off as a joke, but Paul heard the serious question, and the insecurity, beneath it and took his partner’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze as he leaned in and gave a one-armed hug to Dawson. The big copper kissed his head and then reached over and did the same to Lennon.

“You’re an idiot,” he said affectionately to John. “And good luck with all that, later.” He looked at Paul. “Let me know how it goes.”

Paul gave him a salute and a wink, and then a thumbs-up.

“Feelin’ cocky, are you,” John said to Paul as they closed the door and locked it. Twice as usual.

Paul leaned back against the door, his arms crossed, a little smile playing on his face. “No. But I am feeling… good. And that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

 _God, I hope so,_ Lennon thought with just a hint of doubt, as he wondered what the next hours would bring.

They’d ordered in a meal of fried chicken and mashed potatoes, and it was while George was licking tasty, salty grease from his third thigh (or second breast) that John and Paul shared a look and then cleared their throats.

“So… wanted to tell you why we invited you here, and why we didn’t invite the girls,” Paul began.

“Was wonderin’ about that,” Ritchie said, working on his own meal. “Mo was askin’ why she was icin’ a cake for you ingrates who didn’t want her around.”

“It’s not that we didn’t want her,” Paul said, sounding apologetic.

“But we didn’t!” John interrupted. “T’is a meeting of the band, innit? Members only.”

George looked up warily, suddenly remembering what John had told him – that Paul was considering leaving the band. He put down his chicken, wiping his fingers carefully. “So… what’s goin’ on then? Good news, I hope?”

“ _We_ hope?” Ritchie gave him a look.

“Well…” Paul suddenly laughed a little, rubbing his nose. “I’m not sure, actually…s’good, I think.”

“Depends,” John declared in his crispest voice.

George and Ringo both looked at him expectantly.

“How do you feel about it if Paulie and I never shared a room with either of you again?”

Paul spat out a nervous laugh and gave an eyeroll so hard it threatened to spill into the kitchen. “Well, that’s a whole lotta nuthin’.” He reached over and took John’s hand into his own, giving his bandmates a pointed look. “There!”

George and Ritchie looked at the coupled hands and then at each other. Ritchie shrugged. “Didn’t we do that song, already? I wanna hold your hand?”

Now it was George throwing his head back in appreciative laughter.

John and Paul faced each other, bewildered. 

“Look, we’re trying to tell you something important, here,” John said. “We want you to know that we… that Paul and I, we love each other.”

“That’s right, we do,” Paul nodded. “And it’s not new, you know.”

“That’s that other song,” George interrupted. “You don’t think of love as something new…”

Ritchie, who had been sipping at his water, nearly did a spit-take. “What are you sayin’ lads,” he asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“We’re sayin’ we’re a couple,” Lennon snarled, pulling his hand from Paul’s and taking a long drink of beer. “The two of you are thick as planks.”

George turned to Ritchie. “Told you.”

“Aye, you did,” the drummer nodded, looking straight at him, “and that’s when we realized why they were always gigglin’ or yellin’ behind the doors all those nights.”

“And all the tumbling noises,” George agreed.

“Yeah, the tusslin’” Ritchie turned toward the couple. “There was an awful lot of tusslin’ for two lads who got on so well. We just figured you wanted to keep the fights private, for what d’ye call it…”

“Morale,” George answered.

“Right. That. Keep up our morale!”

“So…” George picked up his chicken and took a bite. “All this time you were just lovin’ on each other. Image that, Ritchie!”

“I’d rather not, Geo,” Ringo recommenced working on his potatoes. “Give a couple their privacy an’ all.” 

Paul had crossed his arms after John released his hand. Now he sat back, eyes narrowed as he watched his childhood friend pretending that he wasn’t giggling. “I hope you choke on it,” he said, his lips twitching as he held back a grin. “You knew? _How_ could you know? When? _When_ did you know? We have always been discreet!”

“Oh, very discreet, you’ve been,” Ringo agreed with his mouth full, moments later finding himself being pelted with dinner rolls.

They’d managed to get the story out of George over Maureen Starkey’s deliciously gooey chocolate cake. “Really, only figured it out when I saw you that night,” he recounted. “Paul, so sick, callin’ out, but only for you. You bein’ there, kissin’ his hand. Just… I thought it was beautiful, you know? I mean, a little shocked to realize it.” He shrugged, as he took a second slice. “But more at myself, for not picking up on it, all this time. Because really, once I thought about it…” he looked up, a wicked look cast John’s way, “you weren’t as discreet as you thought. Me and Ritchie were just oblivious.”

“Aye, once Georgie told me what he’d seen, and we started recollecting, it was embarrassin’ that we’d missed it. And now that we’ve seen it, we can’t unsee it. All the mornings you came to breakfast with love bites on your chests…”

“We’d just assumed you’d snuck in birds at some point.”

“The practically sittin’ on top of each other, when there was a whole room of chairs…”

“They never were much for personal space, though,” George told him. “Even on the buses in Liddypool!”

“That’s not true,” Macca objected.

“Couldn’t fit a shadow between them,” George stage-whispered. 

“And Paulie, here, has more fancy cufflinks than any one man needs in a lifetime.” Ringo concluded, turning to Lennon. “You gotta stop yellin’ at him, John. Or find somethin’ else to buy him when you want to make up.”

The table fell into relative silence as Lennon and McCartney shared a dumbfounded expression and their mates chuckled and giggled around their desserts.

“Think they’re pretty smart, I guess,” John told Paul, who nodded. “Aye, who’d have thought it? Right dicks they are.” He covered his mouth, “Oh, sorry,” he said. “I meant _detective_ dicks, not _dick_ dicks.”

“Well, they’re that too, you know,” John pointed out, “having so much fun while they spoil our McLennon announcement.”

“They are!”

“ _McLennon_! I like that,” George said.

“Very catchy,” Ringo concurred.

“Of course,” Paul adopted an expression of deep consideration. “There is one thing they _still_ don’t know. Hang on.” He suddenly jumped up, rushing down the hallway.

John watched him go and then realized what was up. “Oh, yeah. You don’t know this, you bleedin’ busybodies.”

Paul reappeared in an instant, handing a photograph to each man. “There you go.”

There was a sound of flatware clattering into plates, and then a stunned silence.

John turned to Paul with an enormous grin. “Well. That was very satisfying, Macca.”

“Aye, the peace of stillness,” Paul grinned back. “It’s wonderful.”

“They were great about it,” John said, his voice tinged with wonder as they recalled it all the next morning, still cuddling in bed. “All of it. Us, your baby.”

“Not so much a baby anymore,” Paul corrected, looking past John’s shoulder to the nightstand where Michelle’s pictures were propped against the lamp.

“No, she’s a right big girl, now, isn’t she?”

“Yeah. Funny, how Georgie seemed more offended by the idea of me being with Sophie than anything else last night.”

“Well, you _were_ a bit of a scruff for a high-quality girl like her, doll.”

“I was,” Paul agreed. After a moment, he smiled and tugged at John’s nightshirt. “Did I tell you Sophie says she’s musical, too?”

“Aye, you did, love. And I’m not surprised.” John brought Paul’s head to his shoulder and nuzzled his hair. He shimmied back into the mattress, still marveling. “And so now Geo and Ritchie know. About us. About you and Sophie in Hamburg. About that little monster across the water.”

“And they’re nothing but fine with it,” Paul agreed. “Georgie surprised me. I thought he’d have a hard time about us being together, being a couple.”

“Me too. Maybe it helped that he figured it out while you were near-to-dying. Crisis makes the heart more tolerant, I think.” Paul heard his lover sigh at the thought, as though it weighed a ton.

 _I did nearly die, so nearly,_ Paul thought to himself, _and I’ve wanted to every day since then. Every single day. Until this morning. Until today… until this minute, so far. What has changed?_ He wondered _. And will it last?_

He decided that that thought, too – like the earlier thoughts on sex, and on leaving the band -- needn’t be expressed in John’s presence. _I’m getting good at holding back again, at holding it in_.

“And so, how are you, love?” John was asking. “How do you feel?”

Paul tilted his head back to look at John, and Lennon felt his stomach twinge as it always did when his partner gave him the doe-eyes. “I feel…I feel _settled_ , John, like I said. And freer. Just a little bit freer today than yesterday, yeah?”

John kissed Paul’s forehead, and then his cheek – chastely. He was discovering that, for the moment, chaste was easy; just having one beautiful morning with Paul was feeling like enough. For now.

“Do you know, Macca,” he smiled. “That’s exactly how I feel, too. Settled. And freer -- more free. You were right. We didn’t need to carry that luggage any further.”

Paul surprised John then, reaching up and lowering the older man’s lips to his own, where he planted a kiss, fast and light. Chaste, yes. But a kiss. On the lips. Self-initiated. A little thing that brought mutual sighs, drawn up from their hearts, through the lungs, into their shared air.

Settled and freeing, for Paul.

Enough, for now, for John. 

“So,” Lennon murmured after a minute, feeling like getting out of the bed might be a good plan if things were to remain ‘enough.’ “What shall we do with the day before us, Bunny?”

“Mmm, I wanna hop. I wanna move around a bit,” Paul said as he seemed to pick up on John’s thought, in that old way they had, and stumbled into his robe. “I’ll make us some eggs, yeah? And then, you know what? Let’s go find a toy store! One of those pricey ones the peers get to close over lunch so they can buy their stuff in peace? I want to shop for Christmas!”


	35. Day 5: Twelve Banging Monkeys and One Jealous Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Building off the good morning John and Paul enjoyed in the last chapter, the lads go Christmas shopping in an exclusive toy store, where a secret about Paul is revealed, and then to a jewelry store, where John finds himself pining away for something he believes he can never have. It all comes crashing down later, though, when John -- his insecurities too great to be controlled, sometimes -- says the one thing he should never have said to Paul, and Paul, rather than falling apart, tells John where the line is, and that he's reached it. And then Dawson shows up because an interrogation is about to happen, and it involves some Very Important People.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long break between chapters. Had an actually case of writer's block going on, for once. But the next chapter is half-written, so hopefully it won't be a long wait for it! Thank you, all of you, for all of your comments and your willingness to continue with what is becoming a long and necessarily detailed story.

In his unusually effusive mood, Paul had a mind to simply dash out the door and head to a toy store, but John – surprising himself – was the cooler head that managed to slow him down enough to call Brian’s office and find precisely the sort of store Paul had described: some over-decorated, over-priced snoot of a shop that wouldn’t mind putting up a “Back in one hour” sign for the regular folk if a swell with deep pockets wanted a private spree.

The office came through splendidly, sending them to perhaps the most exclusive toy shop in Britain – a very twee place on Bond Street that had agreed to give the Messer’s Lennon and McCartney up to an hour to address their needs. “There happens to be a very good jeweler right next door,” Eileen had added. “If you’re inclined to buy something for the girls. I’ve told them you might pop by.”

“D’ye think she meant just our girls, or the girls in the office, too,” Paul worried as the settled into the limo Eileen had advised them to use (because “You’ve got to look like you belong on Bond Street, fellas!”).

“I think Brian takes care of that, from all of us,” John frowned. “I can’t buy a gift for someone whose name I don’t even know.”

Paul let it go, though the question nagged at him a little. Had he not been paying enough attention to all the little cogs that helped the Beatles Machine go? He bit his lip and felt, not for the first time, that his life had been moving much too fast, for too long, and that he had begun to miss things -- forgotten some really basic things that might need consideration once more.

Not that there was time to brood on it. The instant the two men walked into the toy store all serious thought fled from their heads. The “little shop” Eileen had described was immense, a two-story emporium crammed with toys, dolls, games, art supplies and books – everything to set a child’s heart racing – and enhanced with fresh and festooned balsam and fir Christmas wreaths and sconces. It looked and smelled like Christmas in heaven. It felt like a toy store from a Dickens novel, had Dickens ever written anything so unreservedly, unrelentingly joyful. Paul was enchanted, pausing amid the toadying staffers to simply look about him, and soak it in.

John, meanwhile, seemed to have reverted back to about age nine. He was plowing through the store, exclaiming on every new display he confronted with childlike wonder. He wanted to buy everything he saw. “Macca, come here,” he called out. “Come see this!”

Paul shook himself from he is own reveries to find John tucked in an out-of-the-way corner of the store, where a dozen stuffed monkeys, each wearing a jaunty red fez, were playing drums or accordions, or smashing cymbals together. Every one of them was whirring away, creating an ungodly racket.

“I like this one the best,” John enthused, lifting one and turning a key before shoving it right in Paul’s face. Macca chuckled as the monkey mindlessly crashed two cymbals together for as long as the thing winded down. Which, to his ears, seemed like a long time.

“This is beautifully stupid,” he allowed, taking it from John’s hands and replacing it on the display. “But mostly stupid.”

“I’m getting it!” John insisted. “I’m getting all of them!”

“What are you going to do with a dozen banging monkeys?” Paul wondered as John grabbed the thing up again.

“Staff!” John said. “For whadjasay, the girls in the office. The accountants! It’s perfect. It’s a gift that says ‘This is stupid and I thought of you!’ You should get one for your brother!”

“Aye, maybe if I tied a gold watch ‘round its arm.”

Finding his partner utterly charming in his mad logic, Paul decided he’d have half a dozen himself, “But only the cymbals,” he told the clerk following him about and taking notes. “No accordions or drums, please.”

It took only a half hour for the two young men to do real damage to their wallets. John went lavish on Julian, directing twelve separate items to be wrapped and delivered to Brian’s offices. It might have been fifteen but Paul objected. “Leave something for the rest of us to buy him, would you, John?” Lennon’s step-sisters and the children of a few friends were also seen to with great enthusiasm.

Paul quickly decided on three gifts for Julian, and five for Michelle, including a very detailed, obscenely expensive Victorian china doll – an infant in a long ivory gown, with thickly lashed eyes that opened upon being picked up and real human hair, jet-black and styled under a lace cap. He hoped his daughter would be as thrilled with it as he was, and that the scrappy little girl wouldn’t shatter its delicate face two days after receiving it. “Send all of that to my flat please,” he said, giving the address. “I want to wrap them myself.”

That business seen to, he directed the shop to deliver “every board game you have, plus a few chess and backgammon sets and a load of coloring books and crayons,” to the hospital that had so recently seen to him, “because nothing is more boring than a hospital.”

The clerk stopped in his writing to give McCartney an admiring look. “That’s very thoughtful of you, sir, if I may say.”

“He does it every year, you know,” Lennon interrupted, still carrying his monkey. “Sends all that to some hospital. Usually at a cheaper store than this one, though.”

Paul blushed and moved toward the door. What John had said was true, but it was also something Macca generally did not want known. With the meagre sum the band had shared from their first Christmas pantomime, in 1963, Paul had anonymously sent a slew of toys and games to the Liverpool hospital that had treated his rheumatic fever in childhood. The following year, he’d done the same for a small children’s hospital in Manchester that had come to his attention. This time, feeling a gratitude he still hadn’t fully processed, he would sign his name to the delivery. _I should buy a dinner for the nurses_ , too, he thought to himself.

He threw his head in the direction of the door. “Ready, John?”

John, enthralled, permitted the monkey to wind down on the cymbals once more before answering. “We need to give one to little Zak, you know. For his dad.”

“If Ritchie doesn’t kill you for the noise, Mo will. C’mon, as long as we’re here, let’s check out the jeweler.”

“I can’t go into a jeweler carrying a fez-covered monkey, Macca,” Lennon objected. “Not the thing, lad. Even for me.”

With an exaggerated sigh of frustration, Paul grabbed the thing and tossed it to the waiting limo driver, who was having a smoke. “We’re just goin’ next door,” he said with a grin. “Protect the monkey with your life!”

If the toyshop had been an over-the-top explosion of Christmas cheer, the jeweler’s shop was a much more staid affair, all glass and chrome and cherry paneling and a thick carpet underfoot, muffling the sound. It all suggested discretion and high price tags, and that whispering would be preferred to a Lennonesque shout, John was immediately uncomfortable. “I’ll be a bull in a china shop in this place, Macca, let’s get out of here.”

Before Paul could respond, the store manager – very formally attired and as reserved as a Lord – approached the young men with a subtle cough and an offer to direct them to a private showroom. “Your office said you might be popping in,” he added, preening with his exclusive knowledge.

“Thank you, but we don’t really know what we want, so we’ll just have a lookaround,” Paul gave him a chilly upturn of the lips, making a point of matching the man manner-for-manner. “Perhaps you could direct us to the bracelets?”

His smile faltering only a fraction, the man did as asked. John was immediately bored. “Cyn likes big necklaces, Macca, I’m goin’ over there.”

“That’s fine,” Paul murmured, his attention quickly taken with the glittering case before him. He spotted a gold bangle bracelet covered with a delicate floral scrolling and flecked with diamond baguettes. It screamed “Jane” to him, and he quickly asked to see it. “Can it be inscribed?”

John was equally efficient in his business. Choosing a very elegant onyx and gold necklace and matching ring for Cyn, and a watch and a pair of pretty earrings for Mimi, he declared himself, “Done, Macca, let’s get out of here.”

Paul shot him such a look that Lennon pretended to be cowed and settled down, deciding to look about further as he waited. Perhaps he might find a gift for Paul in this shop? Something that said, “You’re everything to me.” _So…not a gold cigarette lighter. And after Ritche’s mocking remark last night, not another set of cufflinks_. _Something small. Something personal. A charm, perhaps?_

He remembered [the small pewter angel Paul had given him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119496) so many years ago, in Paris, and wondered if the lad would wear something like that round his neck, hidden from any view but John’s own. But everything seemed ‘too religious’ as he remarked to himself over a case.

The next display contained an assortment of engagement rings and wedding bands, and he was about to pass it when one ring in particular caught his attention. “Can you show me that?” He asked the young woman behind the counter.

In his hand it looked a little feminine, but also unique and rich. It was a simple, somewhat wide white-gold band with ivory enamel lining the edges and small flecks of brown gemstones sown throughout the middle. When they caught the light, an almost golden glow seemed to shine up from beneath. _So like Paul’s eyes just this morning_ , he thought. “What are these stones, then?”

“A smoked topaz, sir,” the girl was barely able to control her excitement at serving a Beatle. John gave her his best Bad Boy smile and held it up, to catch the light. “Very pretty,” he murmured to himself. _Pretty like Paul_.

“Indeed, it is lovely,” the girl agreed. “And not terribly expensive, considering the workmanship, which really is exceptional.”

 _Exceptional like Paul_.

“It’s a wedding band?”

“It could be one, of course.” The young woman looked at it with an expression of longing. “I’ve always thought it would be a good anniversary gift. Perhaps if you and your wife were celebrating something like five years together, or a decade. Another way to say you’re happy in marriage.”

“Mmm…” John was non-committal, but a million thoughts were running through his head. _He’d never be able to wear it. But I want to give it to him. I’d be happy in that marriage…Christ, but I really would…_

He slipped the ring onto his own finger. It only went to the knuckle, _but Macca has smaller paws._ Did it look stupid on a man? He tried to imagine it on Paul, with his long delicate fingers, so jarring against the thick black hair that covered the backs of his hands. _Stupid, stupid, he’d never wear it._

“It _is_ beautiful,” he said aloud, more to himself than the salesgirl.

“And unusual,” she agreed.

_Beautiful and unusual, like Paul…_

Feeling frustrated in a thousand different ways, Lennon wrenched it from his finger and handed it back. “Hold it for me, will you? For a few days?”

Meanwhile, Paul was choosing gifts with surprising ease, deciding that the bangle was indeed perfect for Jane -- the unending circle of it indicative of what he hoped would be a lifelong relationship, whatever form that might take. He had asked the jeweler to have it inscribed in two places, opposite from each other within the loop, the first marked “Lovers” and the second “Friends”. He found watches for both his father and his brother, a brooch for his stepmother and a charm bracelet for his little stepsister. It was then he discovered a small selection of gifts meant for very young children and decided Michelle must have a bangle as well. Another loop, another lifetime. “Inscribe it ‘ma belle’, please,” he said softly, almost blushing. “And then just a ‘P’.” 

“‘P’ For Paul,” the clerk asked with a bit of cheek.

“Aye,” he agreed, all the while thinking, “ _‘P’ for Papa”_.

“We can have all of these inscribed and delivered to you by the end of the week, if that is suitable.”

Paul murmured his approval and was about to take his leave when another bracelet caught his eye. It was a series of gold shields, each with a different gemstone encased within a sunburst, and it immediately made him think of Sophie, off on some dismal, wintry French vineyard as she awaited the warmth of spring. “Can I see that one?”

He wrinkled his nose as he weighed it in his hands. “This is very pretty,” he said, “but the woman I’m thinking of is tiny, _petite_. This seems a bit heavy.”

The clerk agreed. Replacing it in the display case, he seemed to think of something. “If you have a minute, sir, I may have something more suitable. It’s very new.”

“I have a minute.” Macca put a full dose of McCharmley into his smile. “I always like new.”

The young man returned bearing a bracelet similar in theme but very different in execution. It consisted of filigreed sunbursts linked together, each one centered by a brilliant opal surrounded by small diamonds. When Paul saw it catch the light, he gasped before he could stop himself. “That’s… _gorgeous,_ ” he breathed as he took it in hand.

“Very striking piece,” he was told. “The warmth of the opals, which have such fire in their depths, against the coolness of the diamonds. And the delicacy of the filigree. It’s bold, but also very light. Exciting but not overdone.”

“Sophisticated,” Paul nodded. _For Sophie. For raising our daughter all by herself, and doing it like a champ. Like a… like a true lady._

Without even asking the price, he bought it, wondering if one of the links could be removed, to better fit Sophie’s small wrists. “And can you engrave this one too?”

“Certainly, sir, if you like.”

“I do…five words, one on each link…I’ll write it down for you.”

***

“That was fun,” Paul said to John later, as he poured water into the teapot. “Helped that we could shop with almost no one else around.”

“Aye,” John agreed. They’d made a light supper of scrambled eggs and toast and now he was happily watching his favorite person in the world move about the kitchen, adding milk to a pretty pitcher and sugar cubes to a small dish, “although I don’t envy you all the wrapping. You should have let them do it.”

Macca nodded, a little regretful. “I suppose. But I was moving so fast, I feel like I need to take another look at it all. And besides, I might like wrapping the stuff. Like therapy, an all. And I was thinkin’ maybe I’ll get a whatsit, an assistant, you know? Maybe by the time the stuff arrives, I’ll have another set of hands to help.”

“What, a personal assistant, like one of the girls from the office, to help out with errands and such?”

“Sort of. Really more like what we were talking about earlier with John Dawson, you know? A fella, not a girl. Someone who can maybe double as security for me.” He laid down a plate of biscuits, not catching John’s wary expression. “It might free me up a bit, and everyone else, too, if I can go out on my own a little, and all…”

“Oh, sure,” John sipped his tea to mask the sneer he could feel taking over his face. Someone else living with Paul, and not him. “Why not just hire Dawson, himself, then. He’d love that. Move him in here, with you, and you wouldn’t need me anymore, would you?”

“What?” Paul, paused from pouring his own tea, and then smiled after a moment, dipping his head with a blush. He settled himself across Lennon’s lap, one arm going affectionately around his shoulder. “Aw, Johnny, ‘m just thinkin’ you shouldn’t have to babysit me, is all. And I damn well know you’re no one to send off on errands, are you? And you never _would_ be, even if you weren’t a big-shot rock-and-roll star.”

He briefly nuzzled at Lennon’s temple before turning to add sugar to his tea. “And you’re crap at wrapping presents, too,” he teased.

“I am,” John admitted, dipping a biscuit and grateful that Paul had apparently not caught the bite of jealousy that had arisen within himself – unfairly, yet so quickly – at the mention of the big detective. It had been an unworthy shot, he knew, one with origins in his own deep insecurities, and _nothing to burden Macca with_.

Still, a moment later, he found himself in difficulty again when Paul resumed the subject. “I’d bet Dawson would be crap at it too,” he chuckled. “Imagine those big sausage fingers trying to twirl a ribbon.”

When John didn’t answer, he nudged him affectionately. “A good suggestion, though, Johnny. If he didn’t already have a gig – and if, you know, he wanted to be treated like a bruiser half the time and a gopher the other half, I’d take him for it.”

John’s hand tightened on his cup. “You’d take him, would you?”

“For my security? Sure. We get on right well, don’t we? But he’d be a rough assistant, I think.”

John’s cup clattered in its saucer and – for perhaps the first time in years – he indicated that he wanted Macca off his lap. “Cyn will be here to pick me up, soon,” he said abruptly, not meeting Paul’s eyes. “I need to pack my gear.”

A few minutes later, having fumed and cursed at himself for how brusque he’d been – for how quickly and completely his distrust had owned him ( _How do you get yourself here, Lennon? Paulie’s not looking where you think. He never would!_ ), he heard Paul shuffle slowly toward the room they had been sharing. He looked up to see the younger man standing in the doorway, his face showing confusion, and a very naked hurt. With a sigh of self-loathing, he looked back down, shoving his shaving kit into his bag with unnecessary force.

“Johnny?”

Macca sounded so quiet. So tentative and uncertain.

“Have I done something wrong?”

 _I hate myself_ , John thought vehemently, closing his luggage with a slap. _I hate everyone and I hate myself the most._

“No,” he answered, eyes resolutely down. “I’m just…” he shook his head. _Don’t say it, don’t go there. Let him off your mad hook_. “I’m sorry. It’s just me.” He turned to face Paul, arms hanging stupidly by his side, looking as confused as his partner. “Thinking that you need anyone else in your life but me, it… it makes me jealous.”

Macca’s confusion only grew. “You’re mad because I bought jewelry for Jane? I don’t understand.”

“Oh, not Jane, you damned… _imbecile_. Of course, you need Jane, like I need Cyn. Otherwise, what are we without them, a couple of right queers?” He picked up his bag and, despising himself more by the minute, lightly pushed Paul aside, making his way into the sitting room where he began to pack away the guitar he’d barely played all week.

“Don’t know why I brought this, either,” he mumbled, more to himself than to Paul. “Didn’t play at all with me, did you?” As usual, he couldn’t stop there, couldn’t stop the thought and the words from going further than they should. “Nothing for the bed, nothing for the band. Just nothing.”

Behind him, Paul gasped as though he’d been struck, and John closed his eyes, as though he’d only just heard his own words. _Oh, Christ, you asshole, that was bad. Fix that right now, you idiot._

When he turned around, the lad was gone. “Macca?”

A crash came from the kitchen. John found his partner on the floor amid shards of china and a bit of cold tea, muttering to himself. “Now I’ll have to buy a bloody tea set to replace this one. Clumsy ass.”

 _You’ve never deserved him_. The old refrain arose once more within Lennon, who noticed how Paul’s hands were shaking and went to help him, silently using a tea towel to sop up the liquid and gather the smaller debris.

“Go away, John.” Macca’s voice was dangerously low.

“Let me help you.”

“Go finish packing and go home. That will help me.” Again, that low, controlled tone. He was furious, John knew, his trembling hands giving evidence that Paul’s long, slow fuse had been lit. Blood appeared on one palm where a sharp piece of broken china pierced it.

John knelt beside him, putting his hands over Paul’s to still them. “You’ve cut yourself.”

The lad pulled his hands away, rising. He threw the wreckage into the rubbish bin and began silently washing up at the sink. When John came behind him, touching him at the waist, Paul wrenched himself away. “Don’t touch me, John,” he managed to say between clenched teeth, still dangerously quiet. “Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Me. Just get your things and go. Call Cyn and tell her to hurry over. Or get a taxi. Just get out.”

“Paul…” Lennon’s high gasp showed how well he knew the size and scope of his fuck up. “I’m sorry, love, you know I didn’t mean that. I didn’t…”

“You said it.”

“I say all kinds of stupid things I don’t mean when I’m angry, you know that. I never mean any of it. It’s just…like my brain is just fired up and it… I fuck up.”

Paul refused to look at him, merely shaking his head as he watched his blood flow from under the faucet.

“Do you… do you want a plaster? Macca? Can I get one for you?”

“I can take care of myself, John.”

_Bad, this is bad, Lennon, and Cyn is going to be here any minute and you need to fix this right now._

“Paul… baby, please, you know I never meant it. I’ve been so happy being with you this week, and it’s all been so good. Today was so perfect, and now I’ve gone and ruined it and not even for anything true. Please…love, you know I just get jealous.”

“I don’t understand you,” Macca said, still not looking up. “Who could you possibly be jealous of? Why are you so _angry_? Is it Jane, or the idea of me needing an assistant, which is it? Or is this about me not playing all week? Or is that just an excuse you’re making because you’re angry that I can’t… I can’t…” He sighed, bringing his shoulders down, and finally facing Lennon. “You had me believing you, John, that it wouldn’t matter.”

This time it was Lennon who gasped, realizing that all of his sincere reassurances to Paul had just been blown out of the water with one stupid sentence. “It _doesn’t_ matter, Paul. It _doesn’t_. Please believe me. I meant every word I said about that.” He dared to move toward his partner, again, but not touching. “Please, baby you know I love you. You’re everything to me.”

“You know it’s not possible, right?” Paul was pressing his cut with a towel, staunching the flow. “You either mean every word you say, or you never mean anything – which is it finally, John? Do I really mean _everything_ to you, am I just…just… a handy dock for you to unload on, and if you can’t do that in one fashion, you’ll do it another?”

Paul couldn’t hide his disdain for John in that moment; didn’t want to hide it. “ _Christ_. Why can’t you ever be happy? And yes, you’re right. We really did just have a great day together. Fucked that right up for both of us, didn’t’ you?” He shook his head again, and then his hand, heading off to find a plaster. “Just fuck off, John. Go home.”

He left John standing there, ashamed of himself and unable to answer, because everything Paul said was true. His jealousy was stupid. Criminally stupid. There had been plenty of moments where his insecurity overrode his common sense when it came to Paul, but this time may have been the topper. The first time in their relationship where Paul really might not want to forgive him. 

_For fuck’s sake, what is wrong with you? Instead of being grateful for the first nearly-normal day we’ve had in over a month, you go and unsettle the milk cart over… over Dawson?_

He suddenly realized his lover hadn’t even mentioned the detective as he was listing off all the possible reasons for John’s fit of pique. He was completely oblivious to any thought of the copper as anything but a friend.

_Fix this, dummy…_

He followed after Paul, finding him in the bathroom, contemplating his razor.

“What are you doing,” he asked in a soft, wary voice.

Paul turned his head slowly, as though processing who had asked the question. When his eyes met Johns, though, they cleared, going dark and hard as coal. “Looking for a plaster in my gear.”

“I have one, I can get it,” John offered.

“That would mean unpacking. I don’t want you to unpack.”

The words struck Lennon right in the chest, and he felt it, physically collapsing against the doorjamb, a hand to his heart. “Oh, God, Paul! I’m _sorry_!” He was pleading, now, ready to beg if it meant getting Paul back to rights, back to the place where Macca absolved him, forgave him, defined the line John had crossed and then resolved it all with an embrace. _Anything! I’ll do anything!_

“You’re right, baby,” he managed. “Everything you’ve said is right. And I’m so sorry. You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m just a horror show...”

“Just _what_ , John? What _is_ this? Why…” the younger man nearly growled his frustration. “Just… tell me _why?_ ” He looked up, finally, and something of the old Macca was alive in his expression, something strong enough not to let Lennon off too easy.

“I don’t know, love. Because it’s _me_. Because I’m a mad dog most days and when it comes to you, I’m completely rabid, but I love you, you know. Please, doll,” he begged, “don’t let me ruin your good day.”

Whether it was the ‘doll’ or the fact that he’d finally managed to cover his wound with a sticking plaster, something seemed to soften Paul, just a little. “At some point, I’m going to learn not to let you and your moods and your filthy mouth ruin my day,” he sighed. “But today is not that day.”

“I’m so sorry…”

“Stop.” Paul actually put his hand up. “Just stop. Don’t apologize again. I don’t want another apology from you, John Lennon.”

“But what can I do--” John began.

“You can _stop_. Stop doing the things you’re _always_ apologizing for. And grow up a little. Could you do that? Just a little?”

The younger man paused for a moment, biting his bottom lip as if considering his words carefully. “I think… Johnny…” It wasn’t coming easy. “Look… you know I love you. I couldn’t change that, even if I wanted to, which,” he threw another hard look at his partner, “right now, I really wish I _could_. But…”

_Oh, God, there’s a ‘but’…_

“But?” John could barely whisper it.

Paul let out an exasperated breath. “I don’t think I can do love-as-chaos anymore, you know? I mean, we’ve had _enough_ chaos to last us both our lifetimes – in our families, our careers. We don’t need it, and I -- I can’t have it be the defining characteristic of love anymore, not with you. I can’t do this love-as-bedlam thing.” He folded towel and racked it, anything to be busy as he said the words. “We’re older than we were, Johnny. And life’s thrown an awful lot at both of us. Shouldn’t we… don’t you think in the end we need to be more of a – a _respite_ for each other, now? A safe place from all the drama instead of … the never-ending source of it?”

Macca’s voice was soft, but firm and John found himself nodding slightly, as though hypnotized, as he focused on the lull of his partner’s tone over and above the words and thought, _There he is, the kid himself, finally showing up. Macca taking control, again_.

And suddenly, it dawned on him: _Maybe that’s what I want. What I’ve always wanted -- Macca in control. Maybe all my fuck ups are about tossing every ball into his court because in the end I’m too broken to really play the game._

So excited was he by this insight that John could barely hear what Paul said next. He wanted to follow the thread he was unspooling in his own mind, and seemed to disconnect from the moment, from Paul, from everything except the strangely exciting thought. _Today felt almost normal. And normal means I get to stop being the responsible one, and the patient one and can throw that all on Paul. Did I just do all that, say all that, on purpose, just to force Paul to take control? When he’s not ready for it?_

“Christ, I’m such a shit, Macca.”

Paul was standing with one arm across his chest. He’d been gnawing at a cuticle while talking and at John’s words, he brought his hand down. “You are. But did you even hear a word I said?”

“Yes…no. I did. I know. You’re right, Macca, I don’t want to be a grown up, but I’m going to have to be. We both have to be. And I did you dirty today, and I… You know, I just think I fell into an old habit because… well it all felt so right, and normal, sort of, didn’t it? Today?”

Paul gave him an exasperated look and headed to the answer the buzz of the concierge. “I don’t know what you fell into today, John, seems like shite to me. But you need to stop doing it, this… _thing_ you do to me, because it’s not fair, is it?” He clicked the buzzer. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Lennon and her son are on their way up, sir.”

The concierge heard a sigh that sounded like a limit being reached. “Thank you.” Paul unlocked the door, getting ready for Cynthia and Jules. While he waited, he paced around the sitting room, hands covering his face as he tried to compose himself.

“Paul?” John nearly crept into the room. “Baby?”

“What,” came the muffled response.

“I just…um…” He drew nearer to the younger man. “Are we okay?”

“Are we _okay?_ ” Paul rubbed his face with a snort and cast John an incredulous look that, for all his anger, quickly grew compassionate when he took in his lover’s pathetic state. The older man was literally wringing his hands before the younger, and he might have as well been wringing Macca’s own heart. He could never stand to see John like that – laid low and hunched over, like a begger. Not the Lennon. Not at the hands of Paul McCartney.

He drew him near, one arm over John’s shoulder, just touching heads, and gave him a reassuring squeeze as he spoke softly, as though to a frightened child. “We’ll _talk_ , alright?”

He felt Lennon nod his head, too overcome to speak.

“I’m mad at you, okay? _Still._ And I’m right to be.”

He could feel the nod, again.

“But, that’s just bein’ mad, then, isn’t it? Love, look at me.” He turned John toward him, grasping him by the shoulders. “No, _look at me_ , now, John, before Cyn gets here.”

He waited until Lennon could finally meet his eyes. “This is… this is just a game changer, okay? Not a game _ender_. We’re going to talk and we’re going to start doing things differently – we have to, John -- but that’s just a _rule change_ , yeah? Do you understand? The love goes on.”

He saw John swallow hugely as his eyes grew wet. He nodded again, and then began bawling, laying his forehead on Paul’s shoulder as his voice broke. “I’m so sorry, my Macca, I _am_. I’m so sorry…”

“Stop, stop…please,” his Macca urged. Paul’s instinct to protect John, there practically from the day they’d met, began to kick in. He could feel his own eyes growing moist. “Please…You’re gonna make me cry, John, now stop it. …And Jules is going to be here in three seconds, Johnny. He can’t see us like this.”

He pulled out his handkerchief, wiping his own eyes and then his partner’s. “Blow your nose, then,” he said. “And you can keep that,” he tried to joke as he moved to answer Cynthia’s knock, and the small piping voice calling out for him.

John was still struggling to pull himself together as Paul swung open the door and greeted Cyn and Jules with astonishing, near-perfect composure. “Hey, there you are!” He kissed Cyn’s cheek and caught the giggling todder just as the child launched himself into his favorite Beatle’s arms.

“My little banana!” Paul shouted, lifting the little boy high as he shrieked, objecting that he was not a banana, at all.

“Alright, then, my little custard! Come, look!” Giving John a chance to find his own composure, Paul carried the boy to the fireplace, where Julian’s scribbles had pride of place. “See? Do you remember when you made this for me? Every day, when I look at it, I get a big smile on my face! Just like this!”

He smiled hugely, and Julian grabbed at the paper and then wrapped his arms and legs around Paul, who closed his eyes and hugged him hugely in return. “You’re good to hold. I could eat you up, baby!”

Cynthia accepted a distracted kiss from John and then leaned against him as they watched. “I don’t how he does it,” John marveled, his voice oddly rasping. He meant how easily Paul related to children. And how terrifyingly adept he was at boxing up what he was feeling at any moment, in order to wear the face expected of him.

“Jules has really missed him,” Cynthia agreed. She tilted her head up to John’s, inviting another peck on the lips. “And I’ve missed you. Are you ready to come home?”

“Aye, I suppose,” John forcing a bit of life into his tone. “I’m a little worried he’s spending his first night alone, without anyone.”

“He seems in pretty good shape, if you ask me.”

“Today, at least,” John answered, a touch of tension showing itself. “Every day is different, you know. Every night is different. But,” he finally nodded to his wife. “Yeah, today was a good day, overall. Mostly.”

“Why only mostly,” his wife began to ask.

The buzzer again sounded, the concierge announcing the imminent arrival of John Dawson to the flat. “What’s that about?” John asked. Paul just shrugged. “No idea,” he murmured before picking up the monkey and shaking it at Jules. “What is this, Julian? Look what Daddy bought for you! Right, Daddy? You bought this silly monkey for Jules, because you missed him so much?”

“Aye, of course,” John said, his eyes on the floor. Paul wound up the doll and watched Julian’s face, so like John’s, light up at the ridiculous sight. “That’s funny, right? Say ‘Thank you, Dada’!”

“‘ank oo, da,” piped the child, reaching for the toy as Paul paced the room again, bouncing him in his arms.

The sight of Paul McCartney holding a baby and a fez-wearing monkey banging on cymbals was what greeted John Dawson as he briefly knocked and let himself in. He raised his brows at Lennon, who gave him a weak, guilty-looking smile, and then went to greet Cynthia. “That’s the little chap, then, eh? And you’re letting Paulie get him all worked up before bedtime, are you? Sure that's wise?”

“Look, Master Julian,” Paul pointed at Dawson. “Behold the evil giant ogre!” He swung him back and forth in an ever-widening loop before depositing him, screaming with laughter, back to his mother.

“Yes, just a little worked up,” Cyn eyed Paul affectionately.

“Ebil ober!” Julian all but screamed.

“No ogre,” the cop said gently, well-aware that his size did sometimes frighten children. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a tightly wrapped sweet. “I’m the cherry drop cop, little man. May I,” he asked Cyn, who rolled her eyes and nodded. “Sure, first Uncle Paul and now sugar. Why not?” She turned to John. “You’ll be able to stay awake with him, right?”

The group laughed, but there was a strain in the room, and John Dawson, with his old copper nose, could smell it. He shrugged off his coat while never letting go the envelop in his hand – the sort of envelop neither John nor Paul could look at, anymore, without a shudder, and as he put his hat on the rack, he couldn’t help but sense tension between his two friends. He noted, especially, that Lennon seemed to be avoiding everyone’s eyes. _Not a great day, then,_ he thought to himself with concern. _And that one looks like he wants to be cuffed and led to chokey._

“I’m sorry to come in unplanned like this.” He turned to John with a little nod. “Indeed, I actually thought you would be gone by now and I’d not be interrupting your visit.”

John looked at Paul, his mouth opening but saying nothing.

“They were just leaving,” Paul answered. “Need to get the kid to bed and all, right, Johnny?”

“We can… we can stay, if something is up. I mean,” Lennon began to stumble over his words. “I mean, if something urgent – something’s important enough for you to come like this, we can…” He looked at Paul, his eyes making a silent plea. “We can stay. I’d like to hear.”

“Naw, John, Cyn’s come all the way here, and Julian’s been missing you.” Paul said pointedly.

 _I’m mad at you. Still. And right to be._ John could hear the words echo back to him, and imagined he could even read them on Paul’s face.

“It is rather important that I talk to you tonight, Paul,” Dawson admitted, placing one big hand on McCartney’s shoulder. “Someone is to be questioned tomorrow, a rather important someone, and I’d like to try your memory a little, see if you can add to what we have.”

Macca was nodding, but Lennon didn’t like the sound of that -- of Paul’s memories being prodded when nothing good (and too much bad) ever came of it.

And despite himself and the resolutions he’d made less than an hour earlier, John couldn’t help following Dawson’s hand to where it rested. “Maybe I should stay,” he turned to Cynthia. “Paul’s first night alone and with this, now…”

Cynthia’s face fell, and Dawson’s expression settled somewhere between amusement and insult. “I will do my best not to unsettle the lad, John, you can be sure of that.”

“Yes but…”

“And if Paulie thinks he’d like company overnight, well, my things are still here. A call for coverage at the hotel and I can stay ‘til morning.”

“You see John,” Paul said, the smallest of smiles playing on his lips. “All’s being seen to here. I’m sure I can do… whatever it is John Dawson wants me to do, without falling to pieces.”

John simply stared at his partner, shaking his head ‘no’ but finding himself incapable of words.

“After all,” Macca finished. “It’s been a good day, hasn’t it? The only thing that broke apart today was a teacup, aye?” He cast a glance at Julian, who was beginning to struggle in Cynthia’s arms, and then looked again at his lover, his face becoming suddenly, unsettlingly, blank. “Just go home, John. We’ll talk another day.”


	36. Breathing Across the Wires and Over the Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***********TRIGGER WARNING***********  
>  **Please skip the 9-asterisked section if you are easily triggered by rape images**
> 
> Dawson tries to draw out Paul's memory in hopes of identifying one of his assailants, and what comes to the surface is a vision that mortifies and shames Paul. He wrongly believes he must share this new information with John, and seeks out a forgiveness he doesn't really need. But pieces are slowly coming together. If only Paul can keep it together, that is.

Having seen the Lennon’s out as far as the lift and given a kiss to Cyn, a jostling hug to Julian and a cool nod to John, Paul hurried back to the flat feeling anxious but determined not to become overwhelmed. _If you could handle John’s idiocy that well, you can do this_ , he told himself. _Whatever fresh hell this is_.

Still, as he locked the door behind him, and then redid the whole locking process once more – a habit that had quickly become an uncharacteristic compulsion for him – Paul could feel his nerves jumping. He found Dawson in the kitchen preparing the teapot and frowning at the evidence all around that there had been some recent accident: fine bits and shards of what appeared to be china tea ware; another cup of tea unfinished; a bit of blood near the sink and a crumpled tea towel carelessly tossed aside.

“Something broke, did it?” He asked as he heard Paul enter.

Paul was thrown off guard a second before realizing the cop meant the cup, not his otherwise fine day. “Aye, had a clumsy moment.” Macca showed his plaster and sat down at the table, unable to not look at the envelope lying there, as though in wait.

“Apparently Lennon did too, yes? Unless I misread some tension back there?” Dawson’s eyebrows were up, but he was smiling.

Paul struck a match. _This is nobody’s business_ , he thought, his natural inclination to protect John overriding his current aggravation. “You know John,” he shrugged. “He says stupid things, sometimes. Tonight, he outdid himself, that’s all.”

Paul’s own eyebrows lifted back at his guest. “I didn’t throw the cup at him, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just got away from me.” He noted with satisfaction that his hands were not shaking now -- that he was lifting the envelope with a deceptively steady hold. _More in control by the moment…_

“Don’t open that yet,” Dawson warned, still fussing over things at the counter.

“Wouldn’t. But what is it?” Paul sounded wary as he began to nibble at a thumbnail. “Not more photographs?”

“Not of you, no, if that’s what you mean.” Dawson brought over the fresh pot of tea and settled his bulk in the chair beside Paul’s own.

“You said someone’s being questioned, tomorrow, aye?”

“Yes. Apparently, a bit of time in prison has helped restore some of Mr. Chalice’s memory. Tomorrow some of the special investigators will be talking to a man he’s identified through photographs, an OBE. He swears he was there – the third man, who was brought later into the agreement, recall.”

Dawson took the envelope from Paul’s hand and opened it, laying out three photographs, face down. “I’d like to see if you can at all identify the man on your own.” He glanced at Paul, who seemed to be trying to smoke and bite his nail at the same time, and lit a cigarette for himself. “When you’re ready, I would like you to look at each picture carefully, one at a time.” He blew a plume of smoke, recognizing his own rather unusual anxiety for the sake of his friend. “Tell me if any of these men intrude upon your memory.”

Paul nodded, his eyes wide as saucers, and drew his ragged nail away. “You turn them,” he said.

 _He doesn’t even want to touch them, and I don’t blame him…_ “Alright,” Dawson said very gently. Never taking his eyes off McCartney – wanting to gauge non-verbal reactions the lad wouldn’t be able to hide, he flipped the first picture. After a moment, when Paul’s expression remained blank, he flipped the second, and then, the third.

“Well, son,” he urged, speaking as quietly as he might to a child, “Do any of these men seem familiar to you? Can you remember… anything?”

By now, Dawson was familiar with Paul’s self-consoling posture, shoulder’s hunched, both arms crossed to hug his own shoulders, but the young man was shaking his head. “No,” his voice sounded dry. “I don’t…”

“Nothing familiar about any of them? Hair, teeth? Posture?”

“I thought the second picture, for a moment,” Paul said, tossing his head in the direction of a smaller shot of a smiling, dark-haired man in his mid-thirties. “But I think he’s just a fella I might have seen there, in the background, like. But… I feel like that was early. Before things got fuzzy.”

“Mmm,” Dawson grunted in agreement. “Well, you’re quite right, he was in the background. A waiter who is not at all a suspect. I just grabbed his picture from his file to have a third. But you’ve at least been able to recognize someone who was there, and that’s a good sign. Can you take a closer look then, at the other two?”

“Why don’t you just tell me which one you’re here about, John?” Paul said, sounding a bit flinty. He was suddenly very tired after a long day, and feeling more afraid than he liked.

Dawson acquiesced, placing one image directly into Paul’s no-longer-steady hand. “Do you remember this one, son?”

The image was of a very dapper-looking middle aged man, quite handsome, with salt-and-pepper hair going more to grey and a thick but well-groomed mustache, similarly colored. “It’s a few years old, the picture, but Cholly – er, Chalice, said he’s not much changed.”

Paul’s head tilted as he considered, and Dawson, still watching him closely, saw the exact moment the flashbacks began as Macca’s eyes grew wider, even as they seemed to empty of all expression.

_I can make that lovely cock so happy…_

_Look at him, shooting right up, there, hard as a rock. He’s loving it, though, he loves it._

_A mouth with bristles, seizing on to his nipple and biting, hard. AmIbleeding?_

The image fell from Paul’s hand, nearly landing in Dawson’s cup.

“Paul? Alright lad?” Dawson took his wrist. “Do you remember?”

Macca seemed to jerk back into himself, closing his eyes for a minute and breathing deeply. “The mustache. That -- that might be familiar.”

In his head, he was reeling. He could suddenly feel the brush of hair that went with teeth biting into his neck and lips mouthing his stomach, someone biting hard at his nipples, and the sensation of hair -- a bristling mustache -- and suddenly new images were flashing in his memory. A mouth on his penis, gobbling him down deep – _as though he wanted to swallow me alive_ \-- and then sucking, sucking… _a hand on my balls, squeezing_.

“Maybe… maybe familiar… I remember a mustache on me.”

“Where on you, Paul?”

“My neck. On _me_ , all over me.” The younger man shuddered in his seat. “Hurt me, my… my nipples.”

_Christ, he is pretty. No wonder my daughter likes him._

“Paul…” Dawson brought his attention back to the table. “Chalice described this man as being aggressive with you in a particular way. I wasn’t going to use his descriptions, but I do think perhaps they may jar your memory – may help you to make a useable identification.”

Silence.

 _“_ Are you with me, lad?” He waited until the younger man’s eyes met his with some clarity. “Can I… May I to read it to you?”

Macca’s nod was almost imperceptible, and Dawson decided to keep ahold of the lad’s wrist, to keep him as grounded as possible through the next bit. Clearing his throat, be began, deliberately keeping his tone bland and monotonous, as though he was reading a laundry list.

*************

“He kept saying [the subject] was ‘so pretty’. He was sucking on his neck and biting him, and he kissed him a lot, a lot, like he really liked him. Forced his tongue practically down his throat…” Dawson looked up catching Paul biting his lip as he appeared to be zoning out. “He gave him a blowie, didn’t he, couldn’t get enough of his cock and [the subject] was hard for it.”

_Pinned down on the floor, pinned down, hands holding him down, trousers roughly tugged off._

_“So pretty, so pretty.” Panting sounds. Like an animal panting. A mouth on my cock, over my cock, a mustache brushing along… tongue and teeth urging an erection I don’t want. Idon’twant it. I didn’t want it!_

_His tongue all the way down my throat, and grunting humping on my leg and I didn’t want it, Ididntwantit…coming… coming. Coming like a garden hose down his throat, shooting loads down his throat and laughter all around, and a loud groan from below. A groan._

_A hand wiping across a mouth. “What a delicious boy you are…”_

“I didn’t want it!” Paul was nearly doubled in two, his hands at his stomach.

_Choking, cantbreathe…cantbreathe_

_Oy, now and I’m delicious too, ain’t I? Take it all, now boy, all the way down your long, lovely throat._

_A cock ramming down my throat. The first._

“I didn’t want it! I didn’t want any of it.” He didn’t realize he was shouting.

“Of course you didn’t, son, of course not. No one would ever think otherwise.” A large hand on his heaving back. “Breathe, now, Paulie, you’re alright.”

*************

He became aware, suddenly, that he was bent over the sink -- that somehow, he had made it there, with no memory of ever having left his seat. As Paul heaved again and again, the water ran. He could see a small spot of his blood near the faucet, just a spot, from a row that now seemed like nothing in comparison to this moment. But the sight of it, the memory of his own blood everywhere, in a hotel bathroom, made him retch again, violently, made him bellow against the spasming effort to expel the contents of his stomach, the contents of the worst night of his life, the contents of the whole month past. _Go, go. Puke it all away, until it never happened._

He had come! God, _he had come!_ It wasn’t bad enough that he’d gone hard. He’d actually come for the bastards! What kind of man was he to let loose down the throat of his own rapist?

And Dawson knew, probably. _“… described this man as being aggressive with you in a particular way."_

Dawson knew. He _had_ to know, now. And the others had seen it and had cheered it and laughed about it. Cholly – that perverted bastard – he had _seen_ it. He’d laughed.

Waves of shame came crashing all around Paul, making him feel unsteady, as though he hadn’t the legs to move with the currents around him, as though he was being whorled right into a riptide.

_Pull me out to sea. Let me go under._

He had come. In the middle of all of that debasing, the mocking, the filth… he had come.

The knowledge was self-indicting. He was nothing, a mere animal. No sort of rational man.

_God, why didn’t you let me die? I want to die. With every new memory, I want to die._

“Did he tell you,” he asked Dawson. Or, he thought he’d asked.

“What’s that son?” Dawson was still rubbing his back with one hand, handing him a glass of water with the other. Paul had said something unintelligible. “Wash out your mouth, now, love.”

Macca did as he was told, feeling like he might as well never think for himself again. He didn’t deserve reason when his own behavior was so unreasonable. Unbelievable. Inexcusable. He spat out water again and again, clearing his mouth while the memories kept tugging at him – all unclear and indistinct – like death hands, like the hands of skeletons holding fast to him, not permitting escape.

“Did he tell you,” he breathed, still hunched over the sink, unable to look anywhere but down, down, down into the drain.

“Tell me what?”

“Did he _tell_ you?” Paul turned his head slightly in Dawson’s direction, his tone demanding an answer. “Did he tell you that I _came_? Did he tell you that while I was being held down and mauled and, and torn apart, I came down the bastard’s throat like a fucking fountain?”

Dawson murmured something Paul couldn’t hear --didn’t want to hear, because at the moment no sort of consolation could ring true for him. _Just shut up._

“He said it didn’t he? He said it and probably laughed and… and now that’s in a – in an… some official report, isn’t it? Forever.”

“Paul…he is not a good man; none of them --”

“It _is_ , isn’t it? Down on paper somewhere, forever!” He gave out a miserable hoot of a self-deprecation. “Good morning, Your Majesty, here’s some interesting reading with your crumpets this fine day. One for the ages, isn’t it? Oh, _Christ…_ ” A groan ripped from his throat, sounding as though it was born deep in his bowels. “Oh my God, how am I going to live? How am I going to live like this?”

“You’re not the first person, man or woman to orgasm while being raped, Paul.”

“No, no, no…”

“Believe me, son. I’m telling you the truth.”

“No, no… God damn me. _God damn me_.”

There was nothing for John Dawson to do but drape himself over Macca, so curled in on himself, and try to counter this new round of self-revulsion with true words that the cop knew would never be sufficient. “It _has_ happened to others, love, you’d be surprised how many.”

The words would never be enough to assuage Paul’s sense of shame, nor his unhappy understanding that even something so basic – so intrinsic to a man’s sense of himself -- was wrested from his control.

It was unendurable for a man such as Paul McCartney. Dawson knew that. But he also knew that the best way to help the lad pull himself together was to engage his reason over his roiling emotions. “Paulie,” he said, bringing a little of the old stern copper into his voice. “Can you recognize him in your memory? Would you be able to make a positive identification?”

“Oh, fuck, John…”

“I know, lad. I know you want to end this but it’s very important. Was this man in the photo part of it? Do you remember him?”

Paul was rubbing his face with both hands until his skin looked raw. “No. No, I can’t, John Dawson. I can’t see his _face_.” He sighed and lowered his head into his arms, still afraid to move from the sink. “I can feel his mustache. His fucking…” He let loose with another groan, softer this time. “I can…I can almost hear his voice. I can’t see his face. I’m sorry. I…it’s just not there.”

 _I’m almost glad he can’t see it_ , Dawson thought to himself, feeling regret that he ever had to show that face to Paul, for the sake of the investigation. If the lad had no memory of the bastard before, the photo would take hold somewhere – in his nightmares, in his self-loathing. He gave Paul’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze, murmuring, “It’s all right, son. You’re fine now, you did nothing wrong, and you must remember that. But I’m only sorry to have put you through this…”

But Macca still wouldn’t look at him. _My poor boy…_

It was a relief to hear the telephone go off in the next room. Dawson was glad to go answer it and get away from the massive pain surrounding Paul McCartney, so huge it was almost palpable, nearly visible for anyone with eyes and a heart. Knowing it could only be someone known to them both, he answered just like a copper, “John Dawson, here.”

“It’s me…” The voice on the other end was tight with tension. “Is he okay?”

Dawson’s shoulders came down and he smiled a little. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist calling, John.”

“Is he alright? I know he probably doesn’t want to talk to me, but--”

“He’ll do in a bit. I hope. Wasn’t pleasant for him.”

With few specifics, Dawson let John know that Paul’s memories had been jarred enough to rock him, “and pretty seriously” but not enough to bring the sort of help the investigation needed. “Still, over the course of the night, something may break through.”

“What do you mean, ‘rocked’?” Lennon’s worry came crackling through over the phone line. “Did he pass out? Did he get sick?”

“The latter. But he’s hanging on.”

“I wish… only, I know… I was a bastard to him and I guess he doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“Actually, John, I think talking to you might be just what he needs. I think, after having forced up those memories, it’s me he’d rather not speak to. Hang on.”

It took a moment to get Paul to stop clutching the sink, but Dawson finally persuaded him to go take the call. Picking up the receiver, the lad found himself unequal to reaching the sofa. He fell back upon the wall and then crumpled to the floor. All he could give John at the moment was his haunted breath.

“Paulie?”

Another breath, a shuddery sigh.

“Baby… you alright?”

John resigned himself to the fact that all Paul might be able to manage at the moment was breathing. He held the phone to his ear, deciding he would listen to the sad Macca air for as long as it took. _Oh, Paul. Oh, my Paulie. I’m sorry. I’m sorry_.

“Is Julian asleep?”

So many minutes had passed, so deeply had John lost himself in his own nagging regret, that Paul’s voice and the question, seemingly so random, startled him. “Cyn’s just putting him down, now,” he answered carefully.

“I loved seeing him today. He’s a beautiful boy.” _I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t. Beautiful boys get… they get… oh, God, don’t even think it. God forbid. Stop it, Macca, stop it. Get normal!_

“He is.”

There was another pause, and then a soft moan came over the line to John.

“What’s wrong, love?” Lennon asked. “What is it, can you tell me?”

“Johnny…”

“I’m here, baby. Do you want me to come back --”

“No. No. No, don’t, Johnny…just… just listen, aye?”

“Alright, dear. I’ll just listen. I’m here, alright?” John gentler his voice to the merest whisper, adding, “my dear one...”

He could hear Paul licking his lips, gearing up to say something big.

“I’m sorry…”

“Sorry?” That was surprising. “What could you possibly be sorry about, Paul?”

“I’m sorry. I’m all fucked up, now.”

“But what’s happened, love?” Lennon suddenly recalled what he’d always called a ‘Mimi-ism’ — a phrase his aunt would tell him on a blue day. He repeated it now to Paul. “You know, a memory can’t hurt you, sweetheart. No matter what you’ve remembered, it’s something that gone and that you’ve survived. It’s like a bad dream; it can’t really hurt you.”

“Johnny… _this one_ hurts. This one can hurt you, too. And I have to tell you.”

“You don’t, really.”

“I couldn’t ever look you in the eye, if I didn’t…”

John closed his eyes. This sounded bad. “Okay…if you must.”

There was only room for whispers on the taut line between the two men. Macca gave John another long, shuddering breath. “You know I’ve never cheated on you. You know it, right? With another man?”

“Of course I do, baby. Of course I do. I’ve always known that.”

“Have you? Really?” The hopefulness in Paul’s voice gripped at John’s heart and squeezed. _You’ve never deserved him_ , that awful refrain. “Because you… sometimes you…” For Macca, suddenly the thought didn’t seem worth finishing.

“Baby,” John started, “if this is about what I said, or the way I got jealous earlier, I’m so sorry --”

“It’s not that. I just... I _need you to know_ that I’ve never cheated on you and I’ve never wanted to. Not ever. And I’m so sorry, so, so sorry.”

“Macca, what --”

“I’m sorry he had his mouth on me, they all had me,” the words came tumbling out of Paul’s mouth, as though if he did not speak them quickly he’d never speak them at all. “All these men, they all had me, and he had me — had me in his throat and then I came Johnny I came. I can’t believe it but I did. I came and… and I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, Christ, Paulie--” And with that John Lennon’s heart seemed was fully crushed. Tears sprang to his eyes. “Oh, _Paulie, love_.”

“I’m sorry…”

“No, no. No, baby, listen to me, stop. Stop and listen, now alright?”

From across the wires, across the universe, he could hear Paul’s voice splinter. “I’m no good,” he pronounced, in a bare whisper.

“God… baby, let me get in the car and come to you.”

“No. No, you’ve just got home. Just… I just needed to tell you.” Macca’s voice became very small, trembling as he added. “Please don’t hate me…”

The sound that arose from John’s throat, a sort of high sigh, full of hurt and longing and grief for his lover, drew a concerned Cynthia into the kitchen. She found her husband pressing his forehead against a cabinet, a look of pure anguish on his face.

“John?”

Lennon opened his eyes and gave her a look packed with sorrow, suddenly seeming twenty years older than he was. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “He’s having a bad night. I might go to him.”

His wife, John Lennon knew, was nothing if not compassionate, and gifted with the vast amounts of patience needed to be married to someone like him, but he could see her shoulders sink as her face fell. “You’ve just gotten home! John, please no!”

He was surprised, when he motioned her out of the room with a wave of his hand, that she readily complied, but didn’t miss the shake of her head.

“Listen to me, Macca,” he said, whispering once more into the phone. “You’ve nothing to say sorry to. You’ve done nothing wrong, love. Nothing. You may not be an angel, and we both know that, but in this you’re an innocent, do you understand?”

There was silence and for a moment, John wondered if Paul had hung up while he was engaged with Cynthia, but then he heard the breath again, coming over the air at him in a great wave of sadness.

“Did you hear me, love? You’re innocent, no matter what. No matter what.”

“Johnny… be nice to Cyn.”

“I was nice. I am.” Lennon’s antenna went up. What sort of talk is this? It sounds too much like a sign off or a last-words or a goodbye or something. “Fuck me, Paul, you’re starting to worry me. Should I come back to you?”

He would never say aloud, but in his heart Paul was screaming an assent, thinking that all he wanted at the moment was to fall asleep with John wrapped around him, making him feel safely home. But he was filthy. He was too filthy to be held. No good for anyone.

“No, John, stay. Be nice to Cyn,” he repeated. “I wouldn’t feel happy knowing you’d left her again to come here, when I’m… not for _me_.”

“Baby…” John felt like he was making a swallow heard ‘round the world. “Baby, are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Paul said after a beat. He sounded tired beyond living. “John Dawson is here. I’m alr – I’ll be okay,” he corrected himself. After another long pause he spoke up again, his voice sounding low and calm, and just a little slurred. “Make breakfast for Jules, okay? Make him pancakes.”

“Okay…” John whispered, eyes closed, clinging to the phone.

“And be _nice_. Go make another baby with Cyn.”

“Would you like that,” John smiled, trying to make a joke. “Another baby to roughhouse with?”

“Call him Paul.” Paul’s grew low and soft.

“James Paul,” John swallowed again.

“John-Paul. With a hyphen. All fancy-like.”

“ _Jamie…_ ” John could only whisper the name, wondering where this was going as he wiped his face with the back of his hand. “I’ll come by tomorrow, then, yeah? I’ll see you again tomorrow? Babe?”

There was no answer.

“Macca?” The calm of his voice belied the sudden sense of panic rising in John’s chest. “Macca, love, are you there? Paul?” His voice rose. “ _Paul?_ ”

After another second he heard John Dawson’s voice. “You won’t believe this,” the big cop spoke in very soft tones. “He’s asleep.”

“He’s asleep?” Lennon repeated, incredulous. “Are you sure? Are you sure he’s not dead?”

He heard a deep if quiet chuckle. “He’s out like a light, son. Made that rough, unnecessary confession and I guess it took the load off him. Also, he puked his guts up, so I’m sure that helped wear him out.”

“John, tell me the truth, is he alright? Should I come there?”

“Well, he’s asleep, now, so no need for that. I’m going to put a blanket on him and let him be. Don’t want to disturb him by insisting he find his bed. Tomorrow is well enough.”

“How’d you know I’d be there tomorrow?”

“I know you both, don’t I? I knew you’d call tonight. I knew he’d need to talk to you, no matter what he actually said or thought. It’s good you called. Actually, it almost seems a bit providential to me, the timing of it, because our lad was shutting down. Seemed like your angel prompted you to call when you did. Or his.”

Lennon felt himself take the first full breath in what felt like hours, wiping his face again. “I appreciate you saying that, John. I was feeling guilty about calling when I knew he… he’s mad at me. And with reason. But I needed to know…”

“Well, I don’t think he’s mad at you just at the moment. He’s too busy hating himself. And I bet you wish you didn’t know all of that, now,” Dawson sounded as though he perfectly understood. “Poor lad.”

“He… why did he need to… how could he feel like he needed to apologize to me. To _me_? As though he’d done wrong?”

“I don’t pretend to understand it, John, but this lad takes to guilt the way blacking takes to boots. I think I could have told him that these things happen til I was blue in the face, but he was never going to be right, or hear a word of it. I think he needed an absolution and the only one who could ever give him that, in his mind, is you.”

“But he’s too fucking smart to think this way, as though I’d ever, ever--”

“It’s rape, John. It rattles all reason. ‘Smart’ doesn’t enter into it when you don’t know if you’ll still be loved. I could tell you stories of husbands whose wives have been savaged, horribly debased, and who’ve simply left them there, with us cops or in a hospital, and just walked away.”

“No!” John sincerely gasped to hear it. “No!”

“It’s God’s own truth,” Dawson said, his lips curling as he thought back over his career. “Some men will just turn off, abandon their women, when the poor girls are already feeling like filth, treating them like the bottom of a shoe, all unlovable.”

“Christ, that’s appalling.”

“And this is how Paul is feeling, right now, son. that befouled and ashamed, too. He had to tell you – his very mixed up sense of himself and his honor needed to speak it. And on some level he likely needed to know you were still with him, on his side, so to speak. But he should have already known you would be.” Lennon heard a huff of a chuckle. “Hell, even I know that, I and completely understand what a bastard you are.”

“I am,” John agreed without hesitation. “Christ, John Dawson, I even … well, I got jealous over something, _someone_ ridiculous today, and… maybe that’s why he felt even worse about it. Because of me.”

“You two really are a pair, you know, a matched set,” the cop spoke quietly as he placed a blanket around the prone figure of Paul, and slipped a pillow under his head. “The both of you think the world revolves around each of you. Everything is not about you, Lennon.”

“Aye,” John sighed in admission. “But look, will all of this that’s gone on tonight at least help get these bastards? I mean is all this wreckage worth it?”

“Perhaps,” Dawson settled himself on the couch, watching Paul as he spoke softly. “Hard to say, unless his memory clears a bit. To be of use to the prosecutor he’ll have to be able to identify this man by face.”

“But what about by voice?” Lennon asked. “Macca’s ear is so good. If he heard the man talk at all, couldn’t he kind of say, ‘that’s it that’s the voice I heard…’”

“Unlikely to hold up. A good defense attorney could rip that up by suggesting that there were too many voices, that Paul was too traumatized, that the fellow sounded a bit like someone he disliked, and old teacher, something like that.”

“Ugh. Jesus.”

“He needs to be able to say he can remember the face. Unfortunately, they dosed him heavily, and none of his memories are complete. They’re all ragged. Right now, he is not sure he remembers more than the feeling of a mustache.”

“Aye and the feeling of the fucking bastard feeding on him.”

“Yes, that. That was a bad thing to remember.”

“My poor love.” The ache in John’s heart came loud and clear through the line. “You’re staying with him tonight, then?”

“Of course. And perhaps we should all create a new schedule. I’m not sure he’s ready to spend a night alone, quite yet.”

***

Having tidied the kitchen, John Dawson – after checking on Paul, who seemed dead to the world -- prepared himself for bed. He brought a blanket and pillow into the sitting room and planned for a long night on the couch, for he had no wish to leave the lad alone should he have a bad dream, or awaken and feel disoriented. Settling in with a final cigarette of the night, he watched; he listened to the young man’s breathing, noting how it shuddered, as though his emotions were still working on him, even in sleep, even as his eyes moved beneath closed lids as he dreamed.

 _Christ, but he is beautiful_ , Dawson couldn’t help but think. He remembered a line that Neddy had repeated to him, once, when they’d taken a Sunday stroll together, stopping at the river’s edge to watch the sunset. “Beauty will save the world,” his love had quoted as he gazed off into the distance and then turned to look at his Dawson with a smile.

 _Dostoyevsky, or Tolstoy,_ the cop thought now _. One of those Russian chaps._ He tamped out his smoke roughly, casting one more troubled look Macca’s way. _Whoever it was got it wrong, though. Beauty may save the world, but only if the world doesn’t destroy it, tear Beauty down and absolutely rip it to shreds, first._

Deciding to leave the lamps turned on for Paul’s sake, Dawson finally settled in for sleep.

A few hours later an almost surreally calm Paul McCartney was shaking his beefy shoulder, rousing him from sleep. He was sitting on the coffee table. “John. John Dawson, wake up.”

From long years of training, Dawson awoke instantly and quite alert. “What is it, Paul, you alright?”

“Yes,” Macca said in a low voice. “I mean, yes, as much as I can be. John, listen: He has a daughter. I think he has a daughter. He said… I remember someone saying that I was – that ‘no wonder’ his daughter liked me. Does…” Paul bit his lip. “Does this man have a daughter?”

“I believe he does, son.”

Paul nodded, as though encouraged. “Yeah. That’s good, right? Might be something?”

Dawson nodded back, looking at him with surprising warmth, like a teacher urging on a promising student. “Might be. That’s good work, Paul, I know it’s not easy.”

“Yeah…” the younger man breathed. “I remembered it. I mean. I remembered it before, but just now… I think it might be him. Maybe.” He looked a little quizzically at the detective, as though only just noticing that he’d set up his bed in the sitting room. “Why you on the couch?”

“I’m surprised you aren’t asking me why you were on the floor,” Dawson smiled.

“That was my next question.” It was said with a little blush.

“Do you remember talking to Lennon, then?” The question was asked very gently.

Paul looked down and then away, playing with his shirt cuffs, which he must have unbuttoned upon waking. They were hanging loosely, covering most of his hands. “I had to tell him. Even if he hates me.”

“He does not hate you, Paul. Never that.”

“Had to, though,” Macca insisted. “Wouldn’t be right, not to.”

Dawson rubbed his eyes. “Do you want to talk about it? Shall I make us some warm milk, or something?”

“No, I don’t. I… I heard what you said to me. About… you said this... what happened. It’s a thing that happens, sometimes?”

“More often than people realize, son. It’s chemistry and glands and the body’s own response memory. It just happens.”

“How--” Paul gulped. “You’re so sure.”

“I am. But if you don’t believe me, I could probably help you find someone to talk to about it. They’ll say the same.”

Paul’s whole body shuddered at the thought, wholly rejecting the idea of talking to a stranger about something as raw, as deeply personal -- and to his mind so heart-stoppingly shameful -- as this.

“You need to sleep, now, love,” Dawson said, sounding almost paternal. “Go take your bed, why don’t you, now?”

“No.” Paul looked up, meeting his eyes. “Can I… would it be alright if I just chuck in with you? I can’t seem to sleep alone, these days.”

Dawson opened the blanket, backing fulling into the sofa to make room, and Paul slipped in beside him. “Thank you.”

“Can you turn off the lamp, then?” The cop affected an annoyance he didn’t truly feel. “If it’s going to be crowded can we at least have the dark?”

Paul reached up, snapping off the lamp. Through the windows, decorative Belgravian streetlamps lent a nightlight effect to the room – very soothing and soft. _John would like that_ , he thought. Lennon always needed some light while he slept. _Maybe I do too, now._

He lay against the unusual (and very warm) bulk of John Dawson, having no idea that the big cop was suffering from a lack of space, a sense of having nowhere safe to put his arms (he didn’t want to embrace Macca and spook him with a wrong impression) and from having slept for too, too long without a body beside him that felt so familiar. _He’s not you, Neddy_ , the big man thought, _but he is so very like._

Just as he finally began to drift off, his chest beginning to rumble in sleepy depths, Dawson heard Paul pipe up again. “John?”

He sighed, a little frustrated, yet willing himself to patience. “Yes, lad?”

“Find out if the guy uses an after shave or a cologne, okay? Find out if he uses Bay Rum.”


	37. Silver Hammer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate to make up with Paul, John joins him to await Dawson and any news from the interrogation. There is a lot going on in this chapter, including Paul achieving a real mastery over his own emotions as a terrible recollection echoes once more through his memory. Lennon begins to reconcile some of his jealousy of John Dawson and even, as the day draws to a close, finds something to be proud about, in himself. Also, Paul explains about silver hammers.
> 
> For some reason the original card from John, embedded within the story, disappeared. It's restored, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had hoped to have this up much sooner, but it was a structurally complicated chapter to pull together. I really hope it "works" for you all, and that you like it.

While the concierge called up to Paul announcing the imminent arrival of his partner, John Lennon – who had waved at a few dozen gathered fans while quickly exiting his limo – was nosing through the box full of stuffed toys and flowers that were still arriving for Paul at Wybourne Towers. He found a large-ish, very soft teddy bear and grabbed at it, flinging it into bag that already bore sandwiches and flowers – carnations, again — and this time a large bouquet of them that he’d stopped and bought himself, not caring whether anyone saw him do it. _Someday I’ll quit being a mouth-poor wanker who can’t stop hurting people, especially Macca, but yesterday was not that day_ , he had thought. _Let someone say something to me about it…_

With the flowers, he hoped that Paul, who was bound to be distracted by the day’s investigation, would understand that he, John, still remembered what a complete and utter shit he had been, just the day before, to the man he loved so much. And the teddy bear he’d spontaneously grabbed at? Well, it looked really huggable, didn’t it, and maybe Paul could use that. And they had been Teddy boys, once. _Or I was…maybe still am, in my ways…_

He was surprised to see Paul waiting for him as the lift door opened. His Macca, standing there, one hand across his midsection, the other raised to his mouth, with three fingertips currently being gnawed at. John melted at the sight of him. _My poor wounded lad…_

“John!” Paul sounded so relieved to see him.

“Macca! It’s been years, feels like!” _This tiresome show we need to put on in public…_

He shot a caustic look to the liftboy who immediately looked away and pressed the button to leave. The moment the doors closed, he enveloped Paul with his spare arm, kissing him quickly on the cheek and leading him back to the flat. “Come, love, let’s get inside. You look a wreck, are you alright? What are you doing, leaving the door wide open like this? This is becoming a very bad habit, you know.”

“Figured it would be okay, just for a moment, and all. While you were coming up.” Paul closed the door and did his lock-up routine before turning to John and pulling him into an awkward hug. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m sorry. I am sorry we fought. I’m not mad anymore.”

“Well, why aren’t you, doll? You _should be mad,_ still. I know I am, at myself. I say hellacious things. I’m terrible to you…” John awkwardly put his armful down in order to return Paul’s embrace more fully. _Home… I’m home, now…_

“I don’t want to fight, though,” Paul murmured into his neck. “I can’t do it anymore, Johnny…and can you forgive me…” The question was so hesitant.

“There’s _nothing_ for me to forgive,” John’s voice went firm as stone. “Nature is what it is, you must know that, love, and you are innocent in all of this. But we’re not even going to talk about it, now, aye? Not now. Later, if you want – if you must – then I will hear you, but right now, the only apologies to be made are all on my side.” His tone softened a bit as he clung to Paul’s shoulders. “And I need to know you understand that. I’m _sorry_ , my precious love. I never meant those awful words I said. Baby? Do you hear me?”

He could feel Paul nod against his shoulder, and the helplessness of it, Paul’s willingness to believe him, once again, simultaneously warmed John to his toes and made him hate himself and all of the impulsive cruelty that lived so near to his surfaces, and was so often spent on this man.

“I can’t fight anymore, not with you…” Paul repeated, so softly John could barely make it out, even as near as the lad’s lips were to his ear.

“No, and I don’t want to keep giving you justifiable reasons to need to. I’m a thorough prick…” Lennon smiled to himself as he noted no disagreement from Paul. _Nor should there be. Be a better man than you are, Lenny, starting now…_

“I am…” he murmured mysteriously to Paul, nuzzling him with warmth. “I am going to be better. For _you_.”

He gave his partner a huge squeeze before letting go and presenting him with the bouquet. “I really _am_ going to,” John said, a sheepish look on his face. “Didn’t even steal these, that’s how sorry I am.”

Paul blushed as he took the bunch and immediately shoved his nose into it, sniffing deeply and giving a soft moan of pleasure at the spicy scent. John couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re so predictable, sometimes.”

“They’re beautiful, John! They smell brilliant!” Paul was still whiffing. “And all the colors! Thank you.” When he raised his head, he looked like a junkie who’d just had a fix, looser and more relaxed.

“Good God, if a few hits of carnation are all you need to get mellow, I’ll buy you a whole farm of it,” John laughed. “There’s a card, hon, read it!”

“You even wrote a card?” Paul marveled as he found it. “That’s a rare thing! Maybe I need to get mad at you more often, then!” He peered at the card. “And Christ, you had a lot to say, didn’t you?”

“Don’t I always,” John smiled, watching Paul’s face as he read the words so packed within the small card’s borders. 

“Johnny,” Paul murmured as he looked up with a pair of warm, unintentionally sexy doe eyes that nevertheless hit John in the solar plexus, as always. “I know you never mean it," He assured his partner. "And you know I forgive you, don’t you? I’ll always forgive you.”

“That’s what’s so bad for me, Babe,” John reached for his partner once more. “Why _you’re_ so bad for me, the way you do. And probably why you save me.”

He saw Paul gulp hugely. “I’ve never saved you, Johnny. Opposite.”

“You’ve saved me every day since we met, hon. I’d be long-dead without you.”

Paul returned the embrace, briefly resting his head on John’s shoulder and permitting John to hold it there, lips lingering at the younger man’s crown, before shaking loose, as though he couldn’t trust the moment. “These beauties need water.” He kissed his partner’s cheek briskly and headed to the kitchen. “Are you hungry,” he called out.

“M’starving,” John sighed, all too aware that yes, the moment had rather quickly grown too warm for comfort, and cursing himself for not managing it better. “I’ve brought bacon butties!”

“This is why I love you,” Paul peered from the doorway. “You understand the necessities of bacon butties, in life.”

He was snipping the edges of the blooms, like a proper florist, when John ambled in, sandwiches in one hand, and the Teddy in the other, which he slipped into Paul’s chair, before reaching into the fridge. “Milk or coke or beer, love,” he asked.

“Milk, please,” came the unsurprising answer. _My lad is such a boy, sometimes…_

“And where is Dawson, heard from him yet? With all the whatsit? The questioning?” John watched with amusement while Paul fussed over the floral arrangement. “I’m guessing that’s why you were eating most of your hand when I showed up, yeah, love?”

Paul sighed over his flowers (John’s card nestled within the blooms) with something almost like content. “So pretty… I’m sorry, John, what did you say? Oh, the … the thingy. Yes. Dawson said he wasn’t going to be present but he’d come back as soon as he had the report.” He disappeared briefly to set the arrangement out in the other room, and spotted the Teddy as he returned.

He picked it up with a frown. “Who is _this_ , then?” 

“Theodore, that is,” John answered, his mouth full of bacon. “Theodore Horatio McLennon. He looked very huggy, so I kidnapped him for you.” _Oh, that’s great, Johnny, just great. Say ‘kidnapped’ in front of Macca, Christ you’re an ass…_

The mistake seemed to pass over Paul’s head. “You mean it’s from a fan, then?”

“From the box downstairs, aye, sorry," his partner blushed. "Stole from some kid again. I mean, I _did_ buy the flowers, though.” 

Macca’s smile as he gave the doll a very sound hug took the sting out of John’s conscience. “Theodore. I like it. He’ll be my Aloysius, then, and I’ll take him everywhere. Call me Sebastian.”

“Aloysius?”

“From _Brideshead_ , you know. _Waugh_? Sebastian Flyte’s stuffed bear?”

John shook his head as though Paul was speaking in code. “Never read that one. Is it a kid’s book?” He’d have been embarrassed by his ignorance had he not so enjoyed seeing Paul throw his head back in laughter as he dug into his lunch, the Teddy seated neatly to his side.

After eating, still feeling too warm by half and not trusting himself not to show it, John suggested they talk a walk, “Just a stretch of the leg, around the building, aye? Or a block or two away? Not many about when I got here, you know. It is a school day, and all. And, as Brian would say, if any paps are around it’s a good way to show you’re well.”

“D’ye think we could manage,” Paul bit his lower lip. “I’d love some fresh air.” He picked up Theodore, sitting beside him. “Expect I’ll have to delay imitating Sebastian Flyte, though. What if the kid who left it is out there? Might have to stop and talk and then, you know, all the grabbing…”

John opened his mouth to say something sharp and cynical and then closed it, amused at his own forbearance. “Quite right, love. Leave him be and come on, then!”

The thing was not to be tested. No sooner had they put their coats on than the concierge buzzed up, wondering if Mr. McCartney was expecting a delivery of toys. “Oh, send that up, please,” Paul confirmed with enthusiasm. “I should tell you a jeweler may be here too, by week’s end, if you want to make a note of it!”

When Dawson arrived, he was greeted by a distracted John Lennon, who barely greeted him before he immediately returned to the dining room table -- where a half-dozen cymbal-clanging monkeys, all wound up, were creating a racket -- and Paul McCartney,seated on the couch, a stuffed bear leaning against him as he fussed over a wildly expensive-looking, lace begowned china doll, tipping it up and down as he watched its dark eyes open and close.

“Ah, I’m in time for the children’s hour, am I,” the cop smiled. “Sorry I’ve forgotten my finger puppets. I do a fierce Punch and Judy, you know.” He hung up his hat and coat. “Does bang up my hands, though.”

“Sorry, John,” Paul rose and greeted him with the doll in his arms, held as tenderly as a baby. “Just got delivered, you know. Look. For Michelle. Isn’t she a beauty?”

Dawson eyed it with genuine appreciation, noting the carefully curled dark hair and long lashes, the rosebud lips. He wondered if Paul even realized that the doll looked like his daughter. And therefore, like himself. “That is simply gorgeous, Paul. Loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. She’ll smash it in a week.”

“That’s what I told him,” John piped up as he rewound a monkey.

“I don’t care,” Paul said as he gingerly replaced it into its box, and covered it with tissue paper. “She can bust it up if she likes. It’s hers to break.”

“And you thought I was spoilt,” Lennon said, sharing an eyeroll with Dawson.

“Well, you are, though,” the detective gently demurred, waving his notebook at them. “To the kitchen, shall we, lads? Away from this unholy racket?”

“Aye, you’ve given me a headache with them crazy cymbals, John,” Paul headed into the kitchen, depositing Theodore on his chair and immediately preparing tea.

“Is this going to be bad, John?” Lennon murmured to Dawson as they headed that way.

“By my lights, inconclusive,” the bigger man shook his head. “But you’ll hear it.”

Both John’s -- Lennon and Dawson -- noticed in turn that after putting the tea things together, Paul simply sat, Theodore in his lap, and focused on his own cuppa to an extraordinary degree, turning the cup until the pattern showed, just-so, stirring a specific number of times. Replacing the sugar bowl in a specific spot. Both men were becoming used to the small signs that meant Paul was seeking control of his emotions by taking control of small things, where he could. By a shared look, they acknowledged it to each other.

“So, the report of this morning’s questioning has been given to us, and I’ve spoken to one of the investigators, with whom I’ve become friendly,” Dawson began. “They’re not shutting the door on this fellow, but he does seem have an alibi for the night in question.

“What’s his name,” Lennon’s tone was rough and ready enough to tempt a smile from Dawson. 

“Now John, you don’t really think I'm going to give it to you and let you hunt him down like a vigilante, do you?”

“I’d like to. Shove my foot up his arse and see how he does. Shove a jackhammer up there and let him bounce around like whatsis -- Tigger on his tail.”

“Precisely why I’m not telling it, then,” Dawson gurgled in amusement. “Not going to tempt your rage when the man may well have not been there.”

“I think you should tell us his name, though,” he heard Paul say in a stubborn, quite voice. “If I hear his name, maybe I’ll remember it. Like I remembered ‘Cholly’, even though it wasn’t Charlie, like we thought at first. I mean, is he a ‘Dave’ or a ‘Rob’ or something? Or a ‘Smitty’?”

“Aye, Dawson, might help him out like that?”

The cop’s look shut Lennon down, completely. “I’m not at all sure that would be a good thing,” he said in a low, stern tone.

For a moment, none of them spoke, and the air was filled with the sound of teacups being slurped at and cigarettes being lit, and a common consideration that new memories tended to wound Macca afresh.

“But what do you think, John Dawson,” Macca’s voice sounded very small as he asked the question. “What is your gut saying about it? D’ye think he _was_ … one of them, you know? This fella?”

The older man gave Paul an affectionate look, full of respect. “My gut doesn’t know, my lad. Praps if I’d been there, been able to observe him with my own eyes, hear him with my own ears. Getting it second-hand, as it were…” he left off.

“Well,” Paul was antsy, shifting in his seat. One arm, likely meant to go across his abdomen, instead went around Theodore. “What did the others say about _their_ guts? They are experienced in all that observational stuff and such, aye?”

After another tug at his tea, Dawson showed a frustrated expression. “Well, he's an OBE and a bit of a local politico-type so apparently very smooth. The men who briefed me – very good investigators, I think – seemed to feel that if he was _not_ there, he at least knew something, because his answers seemed a trifle too-ready.”

 _“Bastard!”_ John fumed. “He was there. He was one of them, for sure!”

The copper put a staying had over Lennon’s, wearing the sort of smile only a man who had seen everything could manage in the moment. “Hold off on your arse-bouncing jackhammer just yet, son. He might not be Tigger. Really, nothing is yet conclusive. They’ll talk to all the car valets working that evening -- find out if any can confirm seeing him come or go. He claims he left the hotel at 11:30 or so, arriving at his home around midnight or a bit after. All of that would have been while your… while things were ongoing, Paul.”

“Mmmh,” Paul grunted in a near-perfect mimic of Dawson’s usual noise, and looked deeply into this cup. “What’s the alibi, then, who gives it?”

“Well, he says he gave a lift to another gentleman who was leaving – that’s going to be confirmed --”

Lennon let go with a harsh snort. _“Gentlemen!”_

“— _To be confirmed_ , too, of course,” Dawson shot him a look and John ducked his head, making an apologetic grimace toward Paul. “But the main alibi comes from his wife, chiefly, and also his seventeen year-old daughter.”

“So, he has a daughter,” Paul perked up. “I know someone there did! Did they make a recording of this interview? Can I hear his voice?”

“Yes, and no, and _emphatically_ no,” came the answer. “Yes, he has a daughter, no, they did not record the interrogation, and no, even if they had I’d not recommend you hear it because…” He sighed, giving Paul a very paternal and protective look. “Because it might send you spinning, and all while not being useful in court, lad. And I wouldn’t want to see you suffering through something without it being admissible later – or worse, to see you challenged on your memories, by some prosecutor. But the point is moot. There is no recording.”

Seeing John nodding in agreement, Paul glared at both of them. “What, am I so delicate, then?” He asked a bit defensively. “I—I know I’ve not always handled everything well…”

This time Dawson’s big hand landed on Paul’s, which was trembling a little. “You’ve handled things remarkably well, my boy, all things considered. And, if I may add, with a great deal of courage, as well.”

“Aye, who _wouldn’t_ puke or pass out in the face of all this,” Lennon agreed, sounding hot. “I know I would. I’ve wanted to enough and it weren’t me so sinned against.”

“But I’ve been hidin’ out here, locking myself in, though, haven’t I? Can’t even sleep alone in my own flat yet? It’s time to stop babyin’ myself.”

The detective gave him a quelling look, his voice taking on the character of a command. “ _Paul_. There is not a-one of us who has minded keeping you company in the nightime, son, or the daytime, for that matter. There’s no shame in needing it for a while. A good long while, perhaps.”

“Aye, especially you’ve been threatened, only days ago,” John agreed, his voice still full of flint as he recalled the basket of fruit. “S’perfectly right to want someone around.”

“Nay, but it’s not,” Paul insisted, his other arm going around the stuffed bear. “You’re all treatin’ me with kid gloves and it’s because I’ve -- I've needed it. Shown myself weak and needy.”

“That’s just insipid Northern talk,” Dawson nearly growled. “You’ve been raised to an idea of what strength and manliness looks like, love. But let me tell you—and understand I’ve seen quite a bit more of the dark sides of men..." the cop made a point of sitting upright, one finger tapping at the table as he spoke, as though to emphasize his words. “ _Courage_ , my dear boy, is when you’re justly terrified because you understand the veriest and real threat to your own self, but you _still_ want to hear what may be the voice of the beast. _Strength_ is knowing that hearing a name might mean raising another hell-born memory – and aye, a memory that might bring you to your knees and haul up your guts – but wanting... daring, to risk it anyway.”

His tone became gentler as he saw Paul’s whole expression open up, his eyes widening as he considered what appeared to be a new thought, to him. “You’re no weakling, lad, nor do you want for courage. But if you insist on being hard on yourself, at least don’t be too hard on _us_ for wanting to spare you reliving more than you must of a terrible few hours, in this very different moment.”

This time it was Paul who reached out, giving Dawson's mitt-sized hand a grateful squeeze as he met the cop's eyes, bright with the sincerity of his expressed feeling.

“I thank you for that, John Dawson,” he said softly. “I’d – well I’d never thought of it that way. Or, you know…thought that way of myself.”

“It’s only the truth, my dear lad,” Dawson responded, holding Paul’s gaze. “You’re an admirable young man, and I think your nature is stubborn enough to make you a fearsome adversary when need be. You just have to give yourself a proper bit of time to process and heal, and then to process and heal some more.”

John Lennon watched the scene before him with mixed feelings. Once again, he felt his jealousy bubble up within him, like hot lava from a threatening volcano. _Unworthy jealousy_ , he knew, and even forced the words through his brain: _Don’t be a small man, Lenny. Be a better one._

Still, the niggling feeling persisted. _Paul should be holding my hand like that, should be looking at me with those eyes_.

On the other hand, he was grateful to Dawson for speaking as he had, and so forcefully, for Paul's sake. _For both of us, really, because Liverpool never wanted us to reconfigure how we understood strength, or courage, or what it means to be men_. But especially to Paul, who had always been the underappreciated warrior – the one who actually fought most of the band’s battles, or finished John’s for him (even in the pubs, back in the day) -- and was too-often dismissed as the poncy lightweight. Macca showed his backbone to others only rarely, but John knew it was steely-hard and intractable, when on exhibit. _If you wanted that look he's giving Dawson, Lenny, you should’ve said those words to him, shouldn't you have… if only you’d ever known them._

When he finally noticed his partner looking at him in puzzlement, he realized that his eyes were brimming. With a blink and a too-casual shrug -- still reflexively needing to project the old toughness over his innate sensitivities -- John spoke up, sounding almost harsh. “Every word he just said is true, love.” When he met Paul’s gaze, though, his look was only helpless. As though he had surrendered to something soft within himself. 

“Well if it’s true,” the younger lad gazed over the two of them, “if it’s ‘all true’, Big Cop, then you should tell me his name.” Macca picked up Theodore and gave him a big squeeze, then cast an ironic little smile at his companions. “If I’m as strong as you vaunt, then you should tell me. Especially while I have you two big, strong he-men around to take care of me while I bravely puke or pass out. And Theodore, here, of course.”

John Lennon chuckled out loud while a small grin was tugging at the corner’s of Dawson’s lips. “I was going to ask his name and what his story was.”

“His name’s Theodore and I stole him off a fan,” John explained. “His story is he’s a wayfarin’ son of a merchant seaman, who spent a year fuckin’ all the she-bears in Bali –”

“Are there bears in Bali?” Paul frowned.

“Shut up, now, it’s the cop’s right to know who you’re huggin’ to you.” John grinned back, his imagination suddenly alive with the chance to escape a moment that had felt had become too solemn. “He’d been abandoned by his parents who left him in a Guatemalan village –”

“He gets around, then,” Dawson observed to Paul.

“A Guatemalan village,” John continued, not to be put off, “at the age of five, where he showed such prodigious gifts at basket weaving that he became known as the Basket Bear of Guatemala.”

Paul held him aloft. “He’s got no basket, now!”

“He used his baskets to fund passage to Belfast, didn't he? Whence he travelled to a poor little town called Tullynamalrow, in County Monaghan, and there he hitched a way to Dublin, thence Liddypool, in the cart of one Owen Mohin, a coal merchant –"

“Ah, that’s why he’s so dusky,” Dawson added.

“Aye, but he fell off the wagon, yeah, and into depravity and drink.”

“Visited Hamburg, then, did he,” Paul snarked.

“ _Ich bin ein got a couple cases of bear-clap_ , he did,” John agreed, smiling widely. “When he finally sobered up and found some penicillin, he started chasin’ down the generations looking for the Mohin/McCartney boy with the sun in his eyes, aye?” 

Paul shook his head, still smiling, as he teased, “Ah, you kind of petered-out there, Johnny, didn’t you?”

“Well…” John shrugged, turning up a hand. “I don’t understand bears or basket-making enough to do more, sorry.”

“No, I love your stories,” his partner blushed. “Even when they dribble out at the end…”

Dawson looked from one young man to the other, noting the warmth of their mutual gaze.

“I will go, I think,” he said as he rose.

“No, no,” Paul put out an arm, staying him. “We’re just playin’ and we need you here.”

“Aye, we do,” John said, also putting out a hand. The look Paul had just given him, so affectionate, so familiar at its depths, had rocked him a bit, hitting him directly in his loins, and he wasn’t about to permit that to go any further, and risk scaring or hurting Paul in any way. _Beautiful little bastard. He just has to look at me, and suddenly my head and my heart are at war with my prick. Christ, I'm pathetic._

“And besides, I was serious,” Macca said, pouring another cup for each of them. “I want his name.” He sat again, looking right into Dawson’s eyes. “Please. His name.”

After shooting a look to both of them, one eyebrow raised until John nodded back, the cop sighed and opened his notebook.

“As I said, he declared leaving the hotel at around 11:30, dropped off his friend, and arrived home near midnight. His wife says that’s around when he came home, and the daughter, who had been preparing for bed recalled him chastising her for not yet being asleep, as they were all leaving for an early drive to Wales, where she was to audition for a conservatory scholarship.” He looked up. “She plays the cello, apparently. A musician.”

"Very nice that she's a musician, but his name is..." Paul prompted.

Clearing his throat, Dawson continued, still putting him off. “I did ask the investigators to bring up the Bay Rum question. They say he seemed surprised to be asked, but quickly volunteered that – quote – ‘Of course I do use Bay Rum, like practically every man in England, but only on casual days. In fact, likely I wore it next day, heading to Wales, but on that evening in question, I’d have probably would have worn _Vétiver.’ –_ unquote.” He looked up, noticing that Paul had flinched -- a surprised, involuntary movement. “What’s the matter, love,” he asked softly.

“Nothing,” the younger man said, sighing into Theodore’s head. “That’s – just. _Vétiver_ is what I wear. So, I guess that’s a dead end, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have noticed it on him, would I?”

John narrowed his eyes as he smoked, taking in Paul’s deflated expression. _Yes, the lad really is brave_. “Aye, Paulie,” he offered. “Bet you the Bay Rum was Cholly, after all. Cheaper. Like to be the stuff a workingman would use at his job.”

He’d said it in innocence but regretted his words almost instantly as his partner’s eyes widened and his expression went dark.

 _“Not exactly a working man’s comb, is it?”_ The leering voice came echoing into Paul’s like a shivering gong. _“An elephant? You know what an elephant sounds like, then, don’t you?”_

His teacup clattered, spilling over as he jumped up at the recollection of the comb being shoved inside him, and stirred about. He covered his face with his hands, gulping air as he tried to calm his suddenly roiling stomach.

Lennon and Dawson both jumped up as well, throwing frowns at each other. “What is it, love,” John asked. “What happened? Did I say something wrong? Something bad?”

John sent a helpless shrug the cop’s way as they both moved to Paul, who was shaking his head, and putting up one hand. “No. I’ll be alright.”

They stood like that, simply watching in concern. Paul had wrapped his arms around his shoulders and was purposely steadying himself with deep gulps of air and tightly-closed eyes. Finally, grabbing the stuffed bear by the arm, he went into the sitting room and bent over the bouquet of carnations. Its scent was filling the room, but he sniffed, anyway, and then raised the card and read John’s scrawled note again. With a final and large, cleansing sort of breath, he sat, casting one arm loosely around Theodore.

 _A good steal, that was_ , John considered as he headed Paul’s way. “Hey,” he said, seating himself beside his lover and gesturing in the bear’s direction. “Seems my Macca needed something to hold on to, after all, aye? And better Teddy,” he noted wryly, “than anyone else but me? Yeah?” 

“Jealous sot,” Paul acknowledged, not quite managing a smile.

“I am. But I’m going to be better,” John agreed, pulling him to his shoulder.

“Alight, Paulie?” John Dawson’s huge bulk was filling the doorway from the kitchen. “Can I get you water? A drink?”

He was answered with a shake of the head and big dark eyes opened wide. “I’ll be alright in a mo, thanks, John.” He turned to Lennon, “And John.”

“What happened,” Lennon couldn’t help asking in a low voice.

Another shake of the head. “Let’s just not talk about ‘working men’ anymore, aye?”

“Alright. That’s easy, love.”

Paul nodded, and then looked up at Dawson. “You’ll stay for dinner, aye, Big Cop? You’re very welcome.”

Big Cop waited for Lennon’s nod before agreeing. “If you like. I thank you.”

“Aye, good.” Macca nodded again, apparently satisfied with the thought. “But let’s not talk about this anymore, tonight, aye? I just--” He broke off, and seemed to choose his words carefully. “I’m not sayin’ I never want to know his name. I’m not _afraid_ ,” he looked up sharply, meeting Dawson’s eye. “But for now… if this is where we are, with no conclusions to be yet drawn… maybe I don’t need to know this fellow’s name just tonight.

***

The evening had gone well, all-in-all. A simple dinner gave both Beatles a chance to learn more about Dawson’s background than they’d ever asked before. “It’s been all about us, all this time,” Paul had said, “or me. So, tell us about yourself John Dawson. Where are you from? Where’s your family.”

“I was born a poor black bear up in Yorkshire, you know, with a full set of teeth that so scared me own family they packed me off to Guatemala--” John and Paul barked in appreciative amusement. “And there I met promiscuous basket-maker, named Theodore, and he was _quite the little queen_ , let me tell you!”

After drinks and a few hands of cards, the copper took his leave, not before John followed him out to the lift, pushing one cymbal-clapping monkey into his hands, “You can tell people the McLennon's give cheap gifts, but at least they thought of you.”

"The McLennon's," Dawson's eyebrows went up in amusement. "No one will know who they are!" He took the gift at face value, giving a little chuckle and a kiss to Lennon’s cheek. He couldn’t know that, in his own way, John was offering a token of peace -- reparations for the envious way he’d been misinterpreting Paul’s growing attachment to the man. _He’s fatherly_ , John thought. _But in a way old Jim could never be, for Paul. Or Alf for me._ Impulsively, he kissed the big man’s cheek in return, just before the elevator doors opened.

***

“Are you sure, Cyn’s okay with you stayin’ over again, tonight,” Paul worried as a pajama-clad Lennon slipped into bed with him and Theodore. “You’d only just gotten back to her, and all.”

“Never fear, my Macca.” After you flat-left me on the phone last night, I was _nice_ to Cynthia. Very nice, in fact. Had her cracking the windows with her high notes, I did.”

“Ah, you braggart,” Paul chuckled.

“My hand to God,” John insisted.

“Did you make a baby, then?”

“Well, that’s up to God, innit?”

“Aye. I hope you did. It'd be nice for Julian." Paul scrunched his pillow beneath his head, turning to face his partner. “Thank you for stayin, though, John. I guess I’m not so sad, after all, that Brian’s lined up Ritchie and Jane and himself and Geo for a few more nights.”

“Baby, we’ll all be with you as long as you need. Just don’t fret on that point, aye?”

“I’d like to get to not need you all quite so much, though," Macca groused, unconsciously making a moue with his lips. 

John leaned over and kissed Paul’s forehead soundly, taking the lad’s hand as he lay back down, and interlacing their fingers on his chest. “Baby, don't pout. It does terrible things to me," he teased. Then, he gave the younger man a more serious look. "You’ll get there. Look what you did tonight, baby. I was _so proud_ of you.”

Paul’s forehead furrowed. “What’d I do?”

“The way you took care of yourself when that bad memory came up? The one about … people who work?”

Paul blushed a bit.

“No, I’m serious, love. Something came up on you, all unexpected-like, and you faced it and beat it back. Took a few minutes, aye... and I’m starting to think I’m gonna have to buy you cheap fuckin’ carnations and write you mushy notes every day of your ever-lovin’ life... but that’s a small price to pay if it helps.” He gave Paul’s hand a squeeze and brought it to his lips. “You did good. And yes, I’m proud of you. No pukin’, no passin’ out…”

“Okay, just wait a mo,” Paul objected with a broad, playful frown as he set Theodore on to his nightstand. “Now, I’ll grant you I do puke more than most--”

“You’ve used more vomit bags than the whole band and the opening acts combined--”

“That’s on planes. You know I get airsick.”

“On the ferry to cross the Channel, every time,” John teased. “On my shoes, twice.”

“Okay, so I get seasick, too.”

“In the van… up in Scotland when you threw your whole guts up on Geo.”

“That was a very winding road, and the van was yawing in the wind, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, baby, it was,” John smiled, brushing back his lover’s fringe. “And then all the bad things, all the bad memories. There was the time you vomited right into my hand.”

“Don’t remember that,” Paul’s brows came together as he thought.

“No, you wouldn’t, love you passed out right before or right after. Can’t recall, now.”

“I did?”

“Aye,” John whispered. “You scared the crap out of me, over and over, you know. When we found you and you wouldn’t wake up... God, I was so scared. But even more scared when you remembered the cameras and you went out like a lightbulb, Paul, you don’t know what that was like, how I panicked. One minute you were there, the next you were gone, and you wouldn’t come out of it, just _wouldn’t_ …” He broke off, the emotions behind the memory becoming too weighty for him.

“John… I’m sorry,” Paul apologized. “I’ve put you through a lot.”

“You’ve done nothing, Paulie,” Lennon’s voice grew more controlled. “It's just... I was just starting to remember… when you got sick. God, when Dawson hauled you out of the bathroom? Nothing was scarier than that. And you were out for so long. _So long_. I was ready to let Little Red smack me into Sunday if only it meant you’d come back to me.”

“Hm?” Paul’s nose wrinkled. “What’s that? Are you saying Jane smacked you?”

“Oh, aye,” John’s eyes widened. “Two sweet ones, _bang bang_. Felt like she'd been storing them up for years, and when she let loose my cheek was tingling for hours.”

“ _My_ Jane? Tiny little girl?”

“Your Jane is a tough little number, you ought be told.”

“Oh, I know that,” Paul grinned. “But she’s never hit me!’

“You’ve never given her reason to, I guess. And I have.”

Both men grew silent. Of course, Paul had given Jane plenty of reasons to smack him, and they both knew it. On tour, with all the birds, some of whom had made headlines back home. And every day, with the fact of each other, of the McLennon's, which Jane might not yet know about, but Paul sometimes wondered...

“Not sure why Cyn doesn’t smack me into _a month_ of Sundays, sometimes,” John murmured, voicing his own wondering as he watched Paul roll on to his back, pulling away a bit. “But yeah, that little redhead was like a demon elf, while you were… you know… unconscious. She hauled off on Geo, too, you know. Only old Jim could control her.”

He felt Paul reach over and take his hand, and they both grew quiet, just staring at the ceiling.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how much I’d scared all of you.”

“S’not your fault, my love.”

“Aye, I get that. In my head, I do. In my heart, though...” Another squeeze of the hand. “I almost died, you know,” Paul confided to his partner, softly.

“I know…”

“No, _really._ ” He turned to look at Lennon. “I saw my mum. She was reachin’ for me, and I was goin’. I was reachin' back, ready to go with her.”

“Jim said that," John mused. "We heard you say 'Mum' and your da was saying you must have been very near death." He gave an involuntary shudder and kissed Paul's hand once again. "Well… I’m glad you didn’t go with her, sweetheart. I needed you here, I did. We all did.”

“I _wanted_ to go,” Macca said. “Everything hurt so much, and I was so ashamed. But… I heard my da. Heard both of you talkin, and…” He paused, frowning into his thought. “Don’t know… Johnny, I don’t know if I would have come back if I’d only heard either one of you. But I heard the both of you, talking to me together, and… it was like _whoosh_! Like I got pulled back. I wanted to see you both so badly. Together-like. S’that make sense?”

“Sure, why not?” John thought it through with a shrug. “You’d always wanted us to get along, all your life, and there we finally were doing that.”

“Yeah… maybe.”

“When you came up, you even had the sisters cryin, you know.”

“Yeah?”

John couldn’t help moving closer to Paul, urging his lover to lay his head upon his chest, where he could play with his hair. “You’ve the loveliest hair,” he murmured in wonder before finishing his thought. “Aye, you’d been down too long, son. Everyone thought you weren’t coming back. When you did... yeah, we all cried, didn’t we?”

After a moment, he felt a short, amused snort coming from Macca. “You needed a thingy, you know. A whaddyacallit. A _Camerlengo_ , to help you out, then.”

“A whatsit, now?” John asked, “And don’t mind if you go and snot-up my pajamas…”

At that, Paul let loose with the closet thing to a giggle he’d managed since seeing Julian for the first time, and then continued. “A _Camerlengo_. My mum told me about them. He’s like a…a chamberlain, I think.” He tilted his head up to meet John’s eyes. “When a pope dies, they want to make sure he’s really dead, right?”

“What, they can’t tell?” John smirked.

“No, you know. Like…in the olden days, people would be in comas and suchlike, or I don’t know, close to death but not all dead, and they’d get buried alive.”

“Oh, aye, like ‘dead ringers’ were people who’d been buried alive and woke up,” John recalled, “and they had a rope in the casket, attached to the bell?”

“Aye, like that. Well, you can’t bury a pope if you’re not sure he’s dead, can you? And you can’t have a dead ringer for a pope.”

“No, that just sounds wrong,” John pronounced with a scouser roll of his ‘r’ as he wondered where Macca was going with this. “But what does this have to do with Carmelos? Caramellos?”

“Well, but… what he does, the _Camerlengo_ , is tries to wake the pope by tappin’ his head with a little silver hammer.”

Paul’s head bounced upon John’s chest as his partner burst into boisterous laughter. “Catholicism is the craziest shit! Let’s bang on his head to see if he’s alive!”

“Aye, that Father Sean fella would agree. But it’s actually kind of lovely, you know.” The natural teacher in Paul began to emerge from the place inside where he kept it well-tamed. “As mum told it, when a pope is elected, or whatever they do, the Camerlengo asks him what sweet name his mother called him when he was little. Not just his baptismal name, but you know, something private and dear.”

“Like your mum callin’ you Jamie,” John smiled, nodding along. “[And now, me, using it…](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611301)”

“Aye. Just like that. I remember one time I could hear you call out to Jamie, while I was comin’ up. Seems the theory was that even if someone is deeply out of it, hearing his mam’s sweet name for him will bring him ‘round. So, when they get a new pope,” Macca continued excitedly, “they ask him what that name was. An’ if it’s like, ‘Piccolo’ or something, then when they think the pope is really dead, he’ll take this little silver hammer, and tap the pope’s head and then call his name. Like, _tap, tap, tap, ‘Piccolo.'"_ Paul's Italian accent was atrocious but John found the cooing adorable. _"'Tap, tap, tap, 'Piccolo’,"_ Paul cooed again, "and they'll do it three times, because Catholics do everything in threes.”

“And then, that’s it? Bang, bang, bang, and they're sure he’s dead?”

Paul blinked at him, looking – to John’s eyes – adorable and fetching. “Well… _taps_ , not bangs, love. But then they’ve done due diligence, haven’t they? Dotted all the T’s and crossed all the I’s and all, yeah? Chap’s dead as Marley and into the casket he goes! Cue the choirs.”

“God, I love you,” John murmured, too amused to say more as he pressed his lips to Paul’s forehead. With a mischievous grin, he made a fist and gently rapped, three times on the lad’s head. “ _Jamie_?” He whispered.

“No, don’t, you daft fool,” Paul chuckled, trying to duck his head.

Lennon did it again. “ _Jamie_?”

At that Macca managed to wrench himself a way, bringing his chest off of John’s and smiling down with amusement into his face. “ _What,_ John, what is it you want?”

“ _Jamie!_ ” John trilled, pretending to gasp, as he brought his hand to his heart. “It’s just that… Baby, you’re _alive_!”

Paul stroked his partner’s face with the back of his hand. “Aye, darling. You called me back, then, didn’t you? And I thank you for it, my Tudor-haired _Camerlengo_.”

“I will always call you back, my love,” John whispered, willing his eyes not to well up as he felt them begin to itch. The moment was beginning to feel too intimate, too warm, once again too tempting. But this time, he meant to control himself, control his feelings, and the needs of his own, greedy body. John was going to help his Macca, rather than hurt him, or scare him, or guilt-trip him. Or he'd die trying.

“I’m tired, babe,” he lied. “Let’s sleep now, aye?”

Paul nodded in agreement, and slid back to his own pillow, looking… _grateful_? John wondered. _Yes. Grateful. Grateful to me. And I’m so proud of him_, he thought. _And I’m a little proud of me, now, too._

They lay on their sides, simply gazing into each other’s eyes -- small, warm smiles on their lips -- and fell asleep together, at almost precisely the same instant.


	38. Christmas, Part I: Father Sean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas Eve and at the end of of very long day Paul finds himself in the last place ever expected to be, thanks to Father Sean Flynn, who knows his music and makes gourmet pancakes and the worst tea on the planet, and who becomes the person to whom Paul finds himself spilling out everything -- or nearly everything -- while drinking the pastor's best whiskey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited Christmas chapter is finally here, but it's long, it's complicated and surprising in a lot of ways, and it will require two chapters to get through. They are both rather like roller coaster rides, so hang on tight!

There were lessons and carols being offered before the ceremony.

He’d never thought he’d find himself here, drowning in music, in the old familiar carols that he had loved as a child, had himself sung within the choir of St. Barnabas Church all those years ago in Liverpool.

_Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’er the plains…_

He had come so reluctantly, thinking to turn back even as he’d faced the steps to the balcony… and now, sitting in the farthest corner of the organ loft, making himself as inconspicuous as possible, he felt the music and the memories of a sweeter, better time wash over him.

It had been Father Sean’s doing. “Sean” as he insisted on being called, although Paul was still having problems with that.

“I’m calling to invite you to Midnight Mass, son. Was listening to the schola rehearse for it, you know – we’ve a 16 voice schola that I’ll lay down cash money can out-sing any other group in London.”

Paul has listened to the priest smoke and chat his way through the phone lines, talking a mile a minute as was his habit, and couldn’t quite make sense of it. He remembered having connected with the fellow over music, but this seemed an odd, almost presumptuous invitation.

Or, maybe he was just being friendly-like and Paul was reading too much into it? Admittedly, he’d still been emerging from a twenty-four-hour bit of brain fog.

Ugh. _The day before._

Doctor Warren – the surgeon who had put him back together after the… after that day… had called Brian, who had called Paul. “He needs to examine you once more, son, to confirm that you’re healing properly.”

“What, he wants to look up my arse again? No,” Paul had responded. “Tell him everything’s in working order and that I’m fine, thank you.”

Brian had been silent for a moment before answering in a low voice. “I think you’ve got to go, son. To close the records, or let him sign off on you or something. And besides, don’t you want to know you’re well?”

“No. _No_ , Brian,” Paul’s voice had gone shaky. “No one’s ever touching me again, not even him.”

It had taken nearly fifteen minutes of the manager’s patient engagement before Paul – so quick to remember the humiliation of his hospital recovery, the endless eyes peering at his arse and reaching, wiping, tugging – finally agreed that perhaps he should take the appointment, if only so the words ‘fully healed’ could be pronounced and all of it finally ended. “But only if I’m the last appointment of the day,” he had qualified. “I don’t want to see another living soul in that office. And only if it’s the last – I’m serious about it, Brian -- the _last_ time I’ll ever have to do this.”

“I’m sure we can arrange that,” Brian had assured him, rolling his eyes up to heaven, grateful that the lad had finally agreed to be seen.

“And…” Paul’s voice grew tentative. “Will you – will you go with me?”

“Of course I will, Paul.” The response came without hesitation, and was uttered with a note of pure understanding that he'd never before heard from Brian. “I’ll set it all up.”

And then the day had come, just a few days before Christmas – “Tying up all my lose ends to close the year” the surgeon had said, entirely too jolly for Paul’s liking.

Brian had picked him up early. It was one of those oddly clear, crisp days that could surprise one in December, and Eppy believed a lunch at one of his extremely private clubs, and then a drive around town, might put some heart into Paul before having to endure the check-up.

His instincts were right. They’d driven about Belgravia first (“It’s pretty here,” Paul had observed, realizing he’d never taken a good look at the area in daylight), and, after an elegant meal they’d both enjoyed, moved through more familiar parts of the city. Macca seemed happy to be diverted by the crowds and storefronts and the Christmas decorations all about. He’d even made Brian stop at a little shop he’d spied outside of Kensington, advertising _Aran Knits._

“Why here?” Brian had asked with a puzzled air as Paul began picking through the astonishing inventory of Irish sweaters, caps, blankets and such, all handcrafted, delivered from across the Irish Sea, and making the whole shop faintly reek of lanolin.

“Mimi!” Paul was smiling hugely as he held up a cream-colored woven shawl. “I can’t resist, you know! She’ll just _hate_ it!”

Brian couldn’t help but smile back at him – so good to see him smiling at all – but “I don’t understand, though. It’s beautiful. Why will she hate it?”

“Because it’s so bleedin’ _Irish_ isn’t it? Not something she’d ever condescend to own!” Paul threw the shawl over his shoulder and began picking through another bin of sweaters. “John can give it to her when he sees her! She’ll open it and be completely aghast and say something like, ‘Well, what is that deplorable sheep-eyed, lower-class boy thinking, giving such a thing to me! I can _smell_ the Catholic on it!’”

His accurate mimicry of Mimi Smith, all tight-voiced and pulled lips brought laugh from the both of them. “And that’s why she’ll love it,” Paul finally explained. “Because it will give her a chance to say such things, all in-character, and John will roar, too. I only wish I could be there to hear it!”

The shop, small and tucked away as it was, had been empty when they’d arrived, but ended up doing very well off Paul McCartney that day. Once he got started, he seemed to remember scores of gifts he still had to buy. He chose pom-pom topped caps for his bandmates, in cream, green and grey, and found a truly stunning woven bedspread for John and Cyn, and a wee Aran sweater for Julian, which meant also buying one for Michelle, although he knew it would be too late for Christmas before he’d manage to wrap it.

He threw in a blanket and shawl meant for Sophie, as well.

And a throw for Jane, and another shawl, for Margaret Asher.

Brian made to stop him as he saw Paul examining a men’s sweater that he suspected might be meant for him. “Paul, you’ve gone mad. You can’t cover England in Aran knits. And it’s getting late, we have to leave.”

“Aye,” Paul agreed, his face losing a bit of its light as he recalled the whole point of Brian’s taking him about. He haphazardly gathered a few more items – random scarves and gloves that would make good last-minute gifts for his aunties and step family – and made his way to the delighted proprietor.

“My entire car smells like Irish sheep,” Eppy had complained good-naturedly. The truth was, the stuff Paul had bought was uniformly beautiful, and the unexpected foray into the little shop had lifted both their spirits. He hoped it would last through the lad’s appointment.

Brian’s hope was half-answered. Paul, always adept at putting on a game face, had entered the surgeon’s empty office and answered the nurse’s greeting with perfect courtesy. Only someone who knew Macca would notice him picking at his fingers and thus recognize the riot of anxiety at play within him as he was led into the examination room.

He’d been in there for perhaps ten minutes or so when Brian, reading a magazine in the waiting area, saw the nurse rush from that room to another, heading back with what looked like a glass of Coca-cola. Ten minutes after that, Paul emerged, shivering, pale and silent, his eyes oddly blank, with the doctor trailing behind him.

“Well?” Brian asked, eyeing Macca with concern. “All is well, yes?”

“Yes,” Dr. Warren agreed. “Everything is healing very well. I don’t mind saying I’d had concerns on that head, but yes, very well, indeed.” He looked at Eppy. “I told Mr. McCartney I’d like to see him one more time, in perhaps three months, to simply put the final dot to it.”

“Wonderful news,” the manager enthused, until he saw the look on Paul’s face. “I’m sure we can do that, right Paul?”

 _Oh. Perhaps not, then,_ came the immediate thought. The younger man seemed incapable of answering, his teeth biting into his bottom lip as he gazed blankly about the room, seeming not to have heard any of the discussion. With more than a twinge of concern, Eppy shot a look at the surgeon.

“He’s a little undone just now,” Warren explained quietly. “It’s no pleasant thing to go through, you know, but he was a trooper at first. Then, suddenly he began to shake and go pale on us. Got him a bit of cola to bring the blood sugar up a bit, and I’m sure he’ll be right as rain as soon as he steps into the fresh air.”

“Alright, Paul?” Brian touched his elbow.

Macca simply blinked at him, his eyes not connecting, and allowed himself to be led out.

 _Never has a night been so very different from a day_ , Eppy thought to himself as he’d returned Paul to his flat and locked the door. The boy hadn’t just gone silent, he had become spookily passive, going wherever he was led, carrying the Christmas packages in both arms without seeming to be aware of them, passing the concierge without a greeting which would be unthinkable of Paul were he himself.

It had lasted all night. Paul McCartney had sunken deeply into some space within himself, and seemed nearly unreachable to Brian. He went to his bedroom and simply lay on his bed, fully clothed, his unfocused eyes staring at the empty wall; so deathly pale, his whiteness rivaling the sheets. Each time Eppy went to check on him, it was the same. The lad never moved. His only response to offers of tea, or fruit, or supper was to sigh deeply and continue staring.

A few hours of that had so thoroughly alarmed the manager that he decided he needed help. Some instinct warned him off calling Lennon, who would very likely fall to pieces seeing his partner in such a state. He rang up John Dawson and explained what was going on.

“He seems to have short-circuited,” Eppy sounded helpless as he described it. “The doctor said he seemed fine and then… well, now he isn’t. It’s like he’s gone catatonic on me, John. Can you come?”

Dawson had not only come, and that quickly, but he’d brought his own overnight things -- which Brian, already meant to stay, had been grateful to see. He felt entirely out of his depths with this new situation and was glad to think he could hand it off to the detective, who had become -- for all of them -- such a ready shoulder to lean on through all of this unhappy mess. After greeting Eppy, he’d gone immediately to check on Paul, finding him precisely as described: silent, still, and pale as death. 

“He’s been like that for hours,” Eppy whispered. “It’s like he doesn’t have a drop of blood in him.”

Dawson had gone on his haunches as he studied the quiet young lad before him, pushing back his fringe with a gentle hand. “See if there’s brandy, would you, Brian?”

“Come, lad,” he said to Paul when they were alone. “It’s all well and good to have a shaky moment, you know, but when you take on for hours like this, you risk becoming a dead bore. No one wants to see the McCartney turned to stone, and just as white. Come, let’s sit you up, now.”

Still completely passive, and not meeting Dawson’s eye, Paul allowed himself to be helped into a seated position, feet on the floor. His blank expression was a bit chilling, even the old copper had to admit it. Still, he’d seen this sort of thing before. A psychic shock. _When people don’t feel safe, they make a hidey-hole,_ he thought. _And if need be, they make it deep within themselves._

Accepting a snifter of brandy from Brian, Dawson swirled the liquid, his hand under the globe of the glass, his own body heat warming the drink and releasing its pungent bouquet. He then placed it in Paul’s and, lacing the stem between his fingers, so it rested in the lad’s palm. “Drink this, now, Paulie, love. All the way down. Let’s get some color back in your face.”

Brian shivered as he watched Macca’s head turn – so slowly, and in degrees, almost like the 19th century automatons he’d once seen at an exposition by the British Museum. Everything in the bassist’s movements, usually so fluid and graceful, seemed just a tad off-the-beat. But the lad obeyed the given order and raised the glass, his eyes finally showing some light as he drank and began to choke. The detective joined his own hand to Paul’s a gesture meant to insist that the whole drink be finished.

With the force of the liquor (and, Brian began to believe, of John Dawson’s own presence) the broken lad finally, slowly, began to come around. Macca coughed his way through the burn, shaking his head as the cop took the glass away, and that brought a welcome flush to his face; he no longer looked like a day-old corpse.

“There you are,” Dawson had breathed out, as though he’d been holding his own breath. He gave Paul a warning look as he set down the snifter. “Don’t do that again, Paul.” It was a stern command. So was the next one. “Let’s get you out of these clothes and between the sheets, son.”

Once Dawson had helped him to strip down to his skivvies he’d simply climbed back under his covers, not bothering with the pajamas Brian had tried to hand him. “No. Thank you. Too tired.”

The words had been barely audible, but the manager had whispered up a ‘thank you’ to heaven at the sound of them, and – needing to do something to keep busy – began folding the lad’s shirt and trousers, knowing perfectly well that Macca was as fussy about such things as Brian was himself. It was then that a sort of copper coin fell from one of the pockets. Dawson, who had been very quietly talking to Paul, reached down for it.

“What’s this, then,” he asked.

“Medal,” the lad managed. “‘ _Take the poison yourself_.’” 

“No, thank you,” the copper smiled, placing it on the night stand.

Brian had stayed for one more hour, putting up a pot of tea and fixing sandwiches for all of them, though Paul neither ate nor drank. Finally, secure in the knowledge that Dawson had things in hand, and would be in touch if necessary, he took his leave, once more wondering if he had been wrong in not pushing Paul more forcefully with the idea of a Swiss clinic.

Had Brian observed Paul only minutes later, he’d have abandoned the thought. Almost as soon as Dawson had returned from locking the door behind him, Paul became more himself, giving a huge sigh in Dawson’s direction and sitting up against the headboard.

“Hungry?”

Macca shook his head, looking up at the cop with apologetic eyes.

Dawson sat on the edge of the bed. “Brian told me the doctor said all was well. That you are healed beyond his own expectation.”

A nod. Fingers being picked at again. The big man reached out, took one of Paul’s hands into his own mitt-sized paw. “What happened, then, son. What scared you?” The questions were gently asked, but Dawson couldn’t help to tease, “And stop chewing on your lip before you begin to look like some bee-stung ingénue. You know it’s wasted on the likes of me.”

At that Macca managed the smallest of smiles, but he stopped, his tongue licking at the sore indents he’d made.

“It’s stupid, John. Sorry. Sorry that I fell apart.”

“Well, don’t apologize, lad. But what happened,” Dawson prodded. “Epstein is gone, now, and it’s safe to say, aye?”

It had been a bad night, Paul recalled now, as he watched members of a schola page through their books, readying for another song. Dawson had been very right – brilliantly so, he now considered – in realizing that part of Paul’s withdrawal had to do with not wanting to explain anything to Brian Epstein. He loved Brian, in his way, but things had never been completely easy between them and he’d wanted no part of answering any questions the manager might have had about what had passed between the bassist and the surgeon. It was knowledge too piercing, too frightening, and too intimate to be shared with him.

But he had shared it with John Dawson. Gulping his way through it, he’d told him what the doctor had said -- so casually he might have been talking about the weather. “In truth, son, when I first came into that surgery, I thought you were a goner, that if you survived at all, there’d be nothing for your future but a colostomy bag -- it’s that bad you were.”

The very thought of it had struck Paul at his center. A colostomy? Shitting into a bag outside his body for the rest of his life? The thought that it might have been his fate had squeezed at his heart, stolen his very breath, while the surgeon simply chattered on, with no notice of how his casual speech was impacting his patient. “But then, seeing your youth… well, I’ve a son of my own, and I thought if you were mine, I’d want to try everything, despite the fever, despite the fact that you might yet die.”

Images began to pass quickly through Paul’s memory. His mother’s voice calling. And his father’s. And John’s. _Jamie… my Jamie…_

“Couldn’t consign you to living like that, young as you are. And now, I’m glad of it. I predict you’ll have a normal and happy life…”

_Normal… happy. I’m a twenty-three year-old man who came while he was being raped and is now afraid of his own prick. Afraid of a kiss. What’s normal and happy about any of that, or ever can be?_

And that was when Paul had begun to shiver with cold, when all of the color drained from his face and he suddenly found someone urging a syrupy cola on him.

 _God, I’d have killed myself_ , he realized now. The thought had flown through his head from time to time since that… since the rape. Killing himself, ending it all. It would be so easy to do. But it was a notion he had rejected for a coward’s way. _And it would hurt so many_ , he thought. _But if he’d bagged me. If he’d just given up and left me like that, I’d have done it – die rather than live like that. I’d be dead now._

A blast of trumpets shook him from his reverie. “They’ve got trumpets and timpani lined up for the Mass, aye,” Father Sean had added, trying to coax Paul into accepting his invitation. “I’ll shove you up there in the loft with them, so you’ll have privacy, and all. Please come.” The priest sounded uncharacteristically solemn. “Come as a musician who could use the balm of a few hopeful carols and maybe even stand a bit of triumph in his life? After all, son, you’ve survived a mighty blow…”

Aye, he’d survived, at least in fundamental ways. His body was his own, and it functioned properly, for the most part. As his father might say, “Well, that’s _something_ , isn’t it?”

Paul guessed it was. With the timpani reverberating right into and through his heart muscle, he rose, moving to a forward corner of the loft, watching as an ancient procession passed beneath his vision – candles, and incense and a sign of contradiction held aloft, and the voices raised in song, led by a organ going at full throttle, and a schola every bit as good as the priest had promised.

 _Adeste fideles laeti triumphantes_ _  
Venite, venite in Bethlehem…_

He knew the words, of course, had sung them in a very similar setting, so many years ago. He couldn’t sing them, now, but he was fully appreciating the sights and the music, and the flood of glad memories they were bringing forth. His mother, adding a bright star to a tree. His family -- aunties and uncles and cousins all around the piano, singing carols and then showtunes and “Bye, Bye Blackbird…”

 _A balm, yes_. The priest had been right about that.

Paul closed his eyes, and for a moment it felt like Mary McCartney was there -- beside him, all around him, above and below him and inside him. _You’re alive, my Jamie. Be thankful. Be thankful for love, as I am thankful. You’re alive._

The entire church was singing, each verse sounding louder, freer, more joyful, and Paul felt something well up within him along with it. Something that had nothing to do with the place of pain or loss or humiliation in which he’d been living. Something that had no connection to the sense of quiet rage that would bloom like thorny weeds sometimes, within his unquiet heart.

He opened his eyes, swallowing with difficulty as the hymn ended and suddenly the familiar voice of his friend, Sean, boomed out: “It is a new day! It is a day of triumph, yes. But also, a day of tenderness! A day that makes us healed, a day that makes us whole; a day that makes us free! Amid these tidings of great comfort and joy, let us begin…”

Paul watched Sean Flynn go about his job in a way that was so strangely loose and casual, as though it was an everyday thing to proclaim healing, and wholeness and freedom – such great, rare things. _Does he really believe it_ , he wondered. _He’s so… such an odd and chaotic priest. Moreover, do I believe it?”_

The answer to that last question was, as ever for Paul, a big and inconclusive question mark he doubted he’d ever be able to answer. Still, as he watched his new friend begin reading the prayers (in which he truly had no interest), Macca was nevertheless struck by the thought that it might be a good thing that at least one of them believed in something.

And then, suddenly, he was drowning in music once more – the loft was literally buzzing, the wood full of vibration under his hand, as drums and trumpets started up again and then the organ blared out a beautifully melodic introduction -- _gloria in excelsis deo et in terra pax hominibus…_

The music washed over him and through him and the familiar Latin carried him along, and then – for a moment, just a single moment, but what a moment it was for him – Paul felt something like peace. Not the peace ‘beyond all understanding’ that people liked to talk about, but a peace characterized (for a brief space of time) by a quality of _absence._

An absence of the misery that had been living in his every waking breath and for all these weeks. An absence of self-loathing, of self-doubt. An absence of constant internal questioning. An absence of the ongoing, daily tears he’d been trying not to show; that nevertheless poured down constantly, from his insides.

And into that absence came the germ of something else. Something a little bit like hope. Some sort of gladness he was unable to name.

 _I’m alive!_ He realized, feeling a thrill rush into him, raising the hairs on his arms at the thought. _I did survive. I have survived. I’m alive! I’m still here!_

And the thought repeated itself through every gong of the church bell, as though it had been pulled into service for that moment. _I’m alive. I’m alive!_

And the quality of 'peace through absence' lingered. Something within Paul felt hunkered-down and quiet for the first time in what felt like ages. From his seat in the darkest corner of the loft, he closed his eyes and exhaled as though he'd been waiting to do so for a long, long time.

When the Mass had ended Paul sat for a bit as the musicians and singers exited quickly. He had hoped to avoid the crowds of people as they made their way out and headed home, but as he finally stepped down the darkened stairway, he found himself face-to-face with an older gentleman – apparently a custodian of the church -- who blocked his way. “You are Mr. McCartney, sir,” he asked.

The younger man took a quick and wary step back, instinctively on his guard. “And you are?”

The man’s smile revealed a missing incisor. “Crockett, sir. I’m to bring you to the rectory on orders of the little Flynn.”

“I’m not sure --”

“He said I’m to bring you in through the back door, sir. To the kitchen for a bit of breakfast.”

“It’s past one in the morning,” Paul objected, without thinking. “Not time for eating.”

“Christmas breakfast, sir,” Crockett said merrily, brooking no argument as he took Paul by the arm and led him from the church.

He found Sean Flynn in his shirtsleeves, collar removed, smoking up a storm while slamming at the stove of a weary-looking kitchen that was out of fashion by at least twenty-five years. “Ye feckin’ decrepit thing, you,” he swore at it.

“Oh. And a happy Christmas to you, too, you know,” Paul piped in from the doorway, hands buried in his coat pockets.

The priest turned to him, looking a right scallywag, his cigarette tipped upward in his mouth. He squinted through his own smoke as he shot the lad a downright devilish grim.

“What do you know about gummy flues, then?”

“I know that if they’re gummy you’re like to start a fire.”

“Ah, and now you’re a smartass, are you? Take off your coat and give a hand, then. This thing is stuck.”

“I’m not staying, Father. Just wanted to come in and wish you merry, and I’ll be off.”

The diminutive priest rolled his eyes, continuing to squint and mutter curses, although now in Paul’s general direction. “Well, be off with ye, then, you stubborn ingrate of a bastard. All the buttermilk and the pancakes are for me. I’ll die of gluttony in the night and the whole parish will go to hell, and all.”

Paul couldn’t stop the snort of a chuckle. “Christ alive, you remind me of those cranks who brought the tugboats into port at Liddypool,” he said as he removed his coat and jacket and rolled up his own sleeves. “It’s no good bangin’ on it, you know, if you don’t scrape it, first.”

A few minutes later a heavy step announced the arrival of the pastor, a lumbering, gouty man who filled the doorway and resembled an English bulldog in both face and temperament. “And what is this, then, Father Flynn, if I may ask?”

Flynn lifted his head, his face full of soot. “Christmas brekkie, Father McCann, and you’re welcome to join us!”

The older priest seemed to growl as he nodded toward the black-haired stranger with him. “Who’s that, then?”

Macca peered over his shoulder, equally dusted. “I’m Paul.”

“S’my friend Paul,” Sean agreed. “He’s havin’ breakfast too, if we can get this antiquated piece of shite to cooperate.”

McCann lowered his head, as though to get a better look at Macca. “Is he a priest?”

“Nay, he’s an apostate.”

“Heretic, more like,” Paul smiled. “How do you do?”

“Oh, original.” McCann, impervious to charm, sounded bored. “I’ll pass on your breakfast, Flynn, but do remember you’ve the seven-a-m Mass in a few hours and try to keep sober for it, if you will.”

“Aye, we’re only havin’ pancakes, you know. Not exactly carousin’.”

“Excellent. I’ll have no reason to anticipate anything going boom in the night, then.” The pastor turned to leave.

“With this stove, you can’t be sure,” Paul nudged Sean, who cackled in agreement.

“If it’s a lavish kitchen yer after, men, you can go join the Church of England, as if they’d have you.” McCann growled with one final, piercing glare. “Until then, kindly keep it down to a dull roar.”

“Blimey, he’s scary, though, innit he,” Paul ventured once he was sure the older priest was gone.

“Ah, he’s all bark and bluster. And then he bites. Toothache of a man, mostly,” Sean said, pushing a plate back into place and coaxing a flame under a heavy skillet. “An excellent confessor, though,” he added, as though he wanted to end on a positive note. “And no one prays a faster rosary; spins your head until it screws right off.”

After washing up at the sink and getting a whiff of Flynn’s first-cooked pancakes, Paul decided to stay for breakfast, after all. This night was meant to be his first time sleeping alone at his flat (he couldn’t in good conscience ask anyone to put off family plans for his sake, and even John Dawson was off to be with his sister in Manchester). Having already assumed he’d sleep little, though, he thought he might as well pass a few hours with Sean, who was good company.

“Odd to be eating at this hour, innit,” he observed as both men slathered butter over steaming cakes topped with sugar.

“A family tradition,” Sean smiled. “At ours, we’d go to Midnight Mass and then have a breakfast together in the middle of the night, all cozy-like, my pa doing the honors at the stove to give mum a treat. Candles and cakes and warm milk, and a few carols before bed.”

“That sounds lovely,” Paul said, thinking that his own family was much more conventional. “A sweet tradition.”

“Aye, I miss it. I’m not sentimental, you know. Don’t miss my family most days ‘cause I’m kept too busy with the likes of you. But… I do miss this.”

“Well, then I’m glad I’ve stayed. And,” Paul spoke over his food, most impolitely, “I gotta say your cakes are something special.”

“They’re practically fuckin’ pastries, son, don’t spare the praise. It’s the vanilla what does it. Me mam never had that in her cupboard.”

Macca chucked and helped himself to another. Flynn observed it with satisfaction. “So, how’d you like the music, then, lad? All I promised?”

“And more,” Paul nodded. “I was impressed with your small choir, and aye, it was good to hear the old songs again. Very…” For an instant he recalled the odd sense of quiescent hope that had come over him, even amid the trumpets and drums. “Well, it was a beautiful noise, you know. But peaceful-like.”

“Paradoxical,” the priest agreed, pausing to chew before he answered. “‘Silent Night’ is all well-and-good, but I’m thinkin’ between the angels singin’ and the shepherds and sheep stinkin’ up the place, Bethlehem was more like Dublin of a Friday night, than some idyllic haven.

“There’s an image,” his guest chuckled. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, only Irish.”

“With freckles and feckin’ red hair,” Sean speculated. “Stumbling out of pubs and brawling.”

“No, stop, now.” Paul laughed out loud. “Even I know where the line is, Father, and I think you’ve reached it!”

The priest picked up the teapot with a rueful look. “Likely over-steeped again. I’m bad at tea, you know, but we’ll have it,” he shrugged, looking across the table as he poured. “And how are you keeping, lad? Alright?”

Paul shrugged, thanking him and immediately spooning sugar into the black liquid and then taking a dollop of milk. “A few cups of this and I’ll not have to worry about sleepin’ tonight, anyway.”

“You’re lookin’ to stay awake then,” the priest frowned.

The younger lad looked up from his cup, a flash of regret in his eyes. _Shouldn’t have said that_. “I guess,” he agreed as he sipped and then winced. “Christ, this is fuckin’ terrible stuff, Sean.”

“Puts hair on your chest.”

“I’ve enough of that, thanks. This is set to put hair on my teeth and eyeballs, it is.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” the priest grunted, shaking his head. “And why do you want to keep awake for, anyway? Expectin’ to see Santy Claus?”

“It’s nothin’,” Paul stabbed at a last bite of the cake and sat back, feeling like he was about to explode. “Just, you know, I’ve not slept alone in my flat for this… well, it’s just about a month, isn’t it?” He blushed a little bit to say it outloud. “Haven’t had the balls to be alone, what with all the nightmares and such.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Sean lit a cigarette and passed it to his guest, lighting another for himself. “Is it getting’ any better for you, though?”

“A little,” Macca shrugged and thought he sounded pretty convincing. _Aside from almost going catatonic a few days ago, and fighting with John, and scaring Jane and Brian and dragging Geo into bed with me, it’s been going very well, thanks…_

“Heh. Listen to himself,” Sean spoke to the air before meeting Paul’s eyes. “I stopped buyin’ horseshit when I left the farm, you know. You’re still missin’ meals and sleep if yer big chin and the circles under your eyes are tellin’ the tale.”

“Augh,” Paul pushed his plate away, his head falling into his hands for a weary moment. When he peered up, it was through his fingers. “You got any whiskey, Father? How ‘bout you bring out a bit o’ the creature, then?”

“Heh,” the priest repeated, this time with genuine merriment. “Throw your dish in the sink and follow me, son.”

They sat across from each other in what Sean called “the only comfortable chairs in the house,” those being the padded leather ones in the pastor’s office. “Must have soft chairs for the arses of the benefactors, aye,” he grunted as he leaned forward to pour a liberal finger of the pastor’s best whiskey into Paul’s tumbler. “Lulls them into wanting to write big checks,” he considered and then shrugged. “Middle-sized checks.”

“Won’t he be mad you’re having at his whiskey,” Paul worried.

“Heh,” the priest poured two fingers into his own. “Write him a big check sometime. He’ll get over it.”

“Will he take money from a heretic, then?”

“He’ll take money from old Scratch if it was offered, and light a cigar for him, too,” Sean laughed, settling back after a gulp. “It’s not exactly a poor parish we are,” he said. “But people will spend a pound a week on entertainment and leave half a crown in the collection basket, never thinking about what it costs to keep things going.” He waved the thought away in dismissal. “And t’was ever thus and probably how it should be, to keep us scramblin’ and humble. So, now lad. What’s this about nightmares and such?”

Paul collapsed back into the chair roughly and struck a cigarette. “God,” he said. “It’s all just so fuckin’ awful, Father.”

“Said every man and woman at some point. And I wish you’d call me Sean.”

“No, you… you don’t know.”

“So, tell me, then, lad. You might be surprised.”

“No…” Paul’s voice trailed off. He blew a plume of smoke toward the pastor’s desk and finally shot Sean a look from under his brows. “Can…” He bit his lip. “If I—If I told you something, would you promise not to tell anyone else? Would you promise, Fa—Sean?”

“Hang on,” the priest put his cigarette between his lips and reached into his pocket, pulling out a long purple bit of fabric. “See this?”

Paul was puzzled. “Aye?”

After kissing it, Sean laid the stole across the back of his neck, letting the edges dip below his shoulders. “As long as I’m wearing this, you can tell me anything – anything at all – and before God it will go to my grave with me. Not the pope nor the Queen could get me to open my mouth on it. I’m vowed to your confidentiality.”

“Is that right,” the younger man asked, his brows lowered.

“It is. This little bit of fabric here binds me to you, as a shepherd to a sheep. It would cost me my priesthood to break the seal of a confession.”

“Hmmph,” Macca considered, knocking back his drink. “Value your priesthood much, do you?” The question, asked so lightly, was wholly serious.

“Over anything else in life, son.” The answer was just as serious. “Or I’d not be here at all, you know.” All that was casual or irreverent in Sean Flynn seemed to drop from his mien in an instant. “If it’s something heavy you’re carryin’ Paul, you can lay it down here, and it never travels an inch of me, or gets spoken of by my mouth, ever. Unto my last breath.”

“Shit,” breathed Paul. He seemed slightly awestruck.

Father Sean Flynn couldn’t suppress a smile as he shook his head at everything Paul didn’t know, and then rested it in his palm, his face turned away from the young man seated across from him. “Just spill it, lad. Get it off your chest.”

It took a few minutes to work up his nerve. He’d reached over for the whiskey, splashed a bit in his glass and knocked it back. And then, leaning forward, his own hands scrubbing at his forehead over and over, Paul McCartney spilled.

The priest, his eyes closed, had never looked his way, only listened in silence. In truth he was half-listening, the other part of him making all manner of silent pleas on the young man’s behalf, _heal this mind, set free this tortured soul_.

Paul knew none of this. He only knew that once he started talking, it was as though his tongue had become a thread being unspooled, and he couldn’t stop until he’d run through everything – everything – and left himself a mere, empty cylinder.

_And then a time in Hamburg. I was just a kid, but…_

_I’d probably fuck a tree if it was alive…_

_I’ve cheated on Jane. We’re not married, but…_

_I’m a bad father. I’ve a daughter in France I’ve never taken the time to see…_

And then, the deepest secret thing, the worst thing:

_I… they were holdin’ me down and this bastard, this perverted bastard was havin’ me for dinner and dessert with his mouth and… and I… it just… God help me._

The words, the admission, came out through his teeth, carried on a high keen of weariness and utter misery.

_I didn’t want it. It just happened, and I couldn’t control it. I… spilled. I just… I came. I’m a perverted bastard, too._

He’d not heard Flynn sigh until then, but when Paul peered over at him, roughly wiping his eyes with his palms like a heedless little boy, the priest hadn’t changed his position. His expression was mostly hidden, but Paul thought he saw a frown, and it was enough to make him bury his head once more.

“I don’t know what to do with myself,” he groaned. “I don’t know how to live knowing what I know. That _that…_ _happened_.” Paul finished softly, feeling utterly drained by his long recitation. He wanted water.

_Wash me, I will be white as snow…_

The priest had said it, the words spoken not to Paul, but to no one – carried by breath and left on the air. When next he looked up, Flynn was at the pastor’s desk, pouring water from a carafe. He walked over to Paul and handed it to him, and then returned to his seat, his eyes bright and diamond-hard.

 _Is he angry? Disgusted? Mad?_ Why is he looking at me like that, the lad wondered before downing the entire drink in one go.

“Well…” he rasped out, as he prepared to rise. “I should leave. You’ve that early thing --”

“Sit you down, son,” Sean interrupted. “It’s my own turn, now.”

“It’s late though--”

“Aye it is. But it’s a poor priest I’d be if I didn’t tell you the truth, now.”

Paul nodded, and settled back in his seat, eyes on the floor.

“It makes me so angry,” Flynn began, and at that the younger man flinched. _Yes, he’s angry, he’s disgusted. Because I am disgusting_.

“So angry I could spit with it. Lad, look at me. Nah, don’t come all over shy, now, after all that. Raise your head like a man, then.”

Macca did as he was told, palming off one more surprising tear as he faced the priest.

“It’s the foulest thing, you know. Having to sit here and listen to someone whose been raped beat himself to death over it. Do you know how many times I’ve had to listen to some poor girl confess that she’s been raped – as though she had anything to confess? And for that matter,” he leaned forward, looking directly into Paul’s eyes as though he meant to emphasize every word, “it’s not just the girls.”

He sat back, striking a match to another ciggie. “It makes me hate people, it does, makes me hate humanity down to my bones, to see someone come in, and aye, mostly girls but the boys too, and the grown women and men, and see what we’ve done to them as a church, as a society -- acting like they’re nothing but shames and scandals…” His voice lowered, but Paul could hear an authentic bite of fury beneath Sean Flynn’s words.

“Listen to me, lad. Paul.” He waited until Macca had a cigarette of his own, held between shaking fingers. “What befell you was a true evil. Held against your will, such repellent acts perpetrated upon you. It’s inherently hellish and no moreso for a woman than a man, especially as the blame always seems to fall on the victim. A woman is treated like a ‘soiled goods’ as though she’s worthless, and that’s a God-bedamned and soul-splitting lie, that is. And a lad is treated like… Well… He’s made to doubt himself, down to his very manhood and every instinct that taps into, isn’t he?”

Paul found himself unable to answer, merely nodding his head slowly as he recognized himself in Sean’s words.

“It’s a dirty-minded world, boyo.” The priest continued, his voice remarkably gentled, now. “Our hearts are twisted and degenerate -- and never more than when we stumble over a victim and stick our fingers into their wounds by our judgments. And the Church has a thumb or two in those particular wounds in some ways, aye. Banging on about purity – confusing families without giving proper notice that every victim is pure in victimhood, because no one deserves to be raped.”

“I’m not pure,” Paul objected, his voice full of a surprising regret. “Haven’t been for a long time. I didn’t even tell you--” he stopped himself before he mentioned John, and all they had been to each other, so deeply, and for so long. “I didn’t tell you the half of it.”

“It’s no matter, though, lad. Doesn’t matter if you’d had a go at half the population of Britain and their little doggies, too, does it? What you endured was still never deserved.”

After a moment, Sean Flynn gurgled at himself in amusement. “Well, maybe not the dogs…”

Paul shrugged at that, tamping out his cigarette and still frowning. “Yeah, but,” he began.

“Aye, _save_ it,” the priest held up his hand. “I know what you’re going to say, so stop,” he commanded. He rubbed his eyes with weariness, for Paul had talked for nearly a solid hour. “Look,” he sighed. “It’s not breaking the seal of anyone else’s confession to tell you this, lad. Your … your _spilling_ , if that’s how you want to phrase it? More than anything, that’s what drives people to run to confession, thinking that they’re rotten with sin, rather than believing that they’ve been sinned against. They throw themselves on their knees, begging for absolution, for something that was never their fault, or under their control. Something that they, like you, never wanted or meant to have happen.”

Paul didn’t try to hide the tears that came so quickly, falling down his face in two perfect lines. “Is this true? Really true?”

“It’s the truth I’m here to tell you, son. Our biology is brilliant in most respects but stupid in some, and never moreso than when it comes to the whole business of rubbing and release and,” Flynn waved his hand about dismissively, “such-like. You joked about fucking a tree? Let me tell you, _it’s been done_. And one can only hope it wasn’t a scrub oak. And on that day, I’m quite sure no one on the planet woke up thinking, ‘well, now, I’d think I’ll go rub me pecker on a tree. Or on a car. Or on a postbox. And yet…”

“No, not really,” Macca objected. “People don’t do that.”

“Oh no?” Flynn snickered and poured himself a bit more whiskey. “Have it your way, son. Only they do, you know. All unsought, their bodies surprising them the same way yours surprised you. I can guarantee you didn’t wake up that day thinking, ‘Aye, now bein’ raped, that might be another good way to get off.’”

He saw Paul wince at the word, and the surprisingly loose way Sean used it. “Sorry, lad,” he added. “Have to speak the word if you’re to have power over it.”

At any other time, Macca would have cursed at the priest for what seemed like unforgivable glibness. But on some level, he knew it was true – that until he could speak the words freely, they would still own him. He coughed and looked at his watch, shocked to discover it was past three o’clock.

“Christ, I’ve kept you all this time. I’m so sorry,” he began.

Sean didn’t pretend he wasn’t feeling it. “Aye, I do need to get a few hours of sleep in me. Let me call you a taxi, then, lad, yeah? Or you can bed down on the couch in the rectory, if you’d rather not be alone?”

“Yes, a taxi, thanks,” Paul agreed quickly, not at all interested in sleeping on a worn-out couch in a priest’s rectory.

Sean put the call through, encouraging another glass of water on the younger man. “You seein’ family today, are you,” he asked.

“Not family, no,” he started, and then reconsidered. “Well, yes, actually. I’m due over at John and Cynthia’s later this morning, myself. Stayin’ over til Boxing Day.

Flynn nodded in approval and then disappeared, reappearing a moment later with Paul’s coat. “Shouldn’t I stay and help you clean up from breakfast,” he asked, remembering the dishes in the sink.

“Nah, there’s a woman comes in, in the morning. Makes breakfast for himself and the rest. She’s used to cleanin’ up after me.”

“Give her a nice gift, then,” Paul advised as they walked toward the front door. “And maybe clean the stove for her.”

“If I could buy her a new one, I would,” Sean groaned, his weariness taking over quickly. “But God will provide, aye?”

“Aye,” Macca agreed with a small smile, thinking perhaps he'd see to that himself rather than waiting upon the Lord. He bit his lips, his hand on the door as he waited for headlights to pull into the drive. “Look, I just have to ask you…”

“Last question for the night, though,” the priest smiled back.

“It’s just… what you said, about, you know…” Paul looked away, hating that he was expressing any doubt at all in Sean Flynn’s direction. “Is it really real? That you’ll tell no one? Ever?”

The priest looked almost like he had been expecting the question. He slid the stole off his neck and began wrapping it around one finger, slowly, as he answered.

“This thing, here? Remember I said it bound me to you, and all you’d dared to share with me?”

Paul nodded, listening carefully.

“It’s all part of something much bigger, you see. There’s a bit in the Gospel when Jesus makes priests of his apostles, every thick-headed one of ‘em. And he says, ‘whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven’."

Macca licked his lips, wondering if he was stupid or just tired. “I don’t get it.”

Flynn chucked lightly and recommenced rolling his stole around his finger. “Well there’s a whole theological treatise I could read you, but let’s just say it this way, yeah? This _stola_ , it’s a funny thing. It binds me to you, makes me responsible for you, in a way. Accountable to God, for you. It _binds_ ,” he held up the rolled strip, and then suddenly let it unfurl once more. “But it also _loosens_. Its sets the prisoner free, as it were.” He traced the sign of the cross on Paul’s forehead before the young man knew what he was doing – just as he’d done in the emergency room, on that awful day – and murmured the words of absolution once more, just as a taxi began to pull into the drive.

“You’ve been loosed, Paul. On earth. In heaven. Now, you have to loose _yourself_ , forgive yourself enough to cast off the binds you’ve been imprisoning yourself with, and become a free man, once more.”

He smiled and shrugged, patting the stunned younger man on the shoulder. “Or as free as any of us ever are while we live, aye?”

Paul’s mouth opened, but he wasn’t sure what words should come out. “My taxi is here. It’s just come.” That sounded like babbling to his ears, so he tried again, putting out his hand. “Thank you. Thank you for inviting me to the music,” he said, meeting Flynn’s eyes. “And for breakfast. And for…all of this. Thank you, Father Sean.”

Sean took his hand, but cocked his head, giving off an expression of pure frustration, and Paul laughed as he understood.

“Thank you, _Sean_.” The handshake was warm between the two exhausted men. “And happy Christmas to you.”


	39. Christmas, Part II, JANE/JOHN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, finally, Christmas Eve tumbles into Christmas Day. I really hope you like it.

When John had grabbed the Teddy Bear dubbed Theodore Horatio McLennon from the bin of fan gifts, he’d had no idea Paul would take so quickly to the toy, or that it would become a true mood-soother for him. His jokes about Sebastian Flyte aside, Macca never did take the thing out in public. “Not really my style, after all,” he had admitted with a sheepish grin. 

Still, like Linus Van Pelt and his blanket, Theodore had become something of a refuge for Paul, and in the days leading up to Christmas, anyone spending a night in Belgravia quickly made peace with seeing the still-recovering lad set the stuffed doll beside him during breakfast and tea, or drag it through the flat by one arm as he wandered about. Ritchie, spending his first night over, mentioned to George later that they’d watched a horror movie together and “Paulie had his arms wrapped tight around this teddy bear, his face half buried in its head, didn’t he? What’s that about?”

“Did he have any nightmares after, though,” George had asked, remembering the night Paul had all but shaken the walls with his screaming.

“No, not that I could tell.”

“Let it be, then, love,” his mate had said. “If it brings him a bit of security, then a teddy bear is not the worst thing a man could use, aye?”

Ritchie, who had heard enough about Paul’s fast mood changes and fears to have wondered what he would be facing as he spent the night with him, couldn’t help but agree. “And it’s a cute thing, too, the bear.”

Even Jane, when she had agreed to help get Paul to Christmas by taking a night in the schedule, had been philosophical about Theodore. Perhaps because she was the only woman in the mix, or because she was an actress and appreciated dramatic outplay, she actually found her poor lover’s attachment to something soft and huggable to be both heart-breaking and beautiful -- full of pathos and a determination to become whole by any means necessary. When they’d gone to bed that night, she’d worn an old pair of pajamas, nothing sexy, nothing that might make Paul feel in any way challenged, and had placed the bear between them in the bed with a little grin, laying her hand on its belly. Paul, joining her after his ablutions, had smiled with appreciation, laying his own hand upon hers, and they’d lain together like that, fingers sometimes lacing together, as they chatted with warm familiarity about nothing important, and stroked each other’s hair until they’d finally fallen asleep.

So, anyone peering in on Paul McCartney in the early hours of Christmas morning would not have been surprised to find him fast asleep with his head upon the Theodore, drooling a bit on the doll’s furry nose.

He’d come into the flat at nearly four in the morning, passing by a concierge entirely unknown to him (for he was never in the lobby at that hour) and then flopping down on the couch, kicking off his shoes as he reached for the bear. “It’s nearly sunrise, Theodore,” he’d murmured, reassuring himself more than the bear that it would be safe to close his eyes and find his rest on this, his first night wholly alone in the apartment he was coming to love. He’d fallen asleep immediately.

His exhaustion was not surprising. Christmas Eve may have ended with Mass and an interesting after-party with his new friend, Sean Flynn – _and how many new friends do Beatles ever get to make_ , he’d thought to himself on the ride back. _None, because everyone wants something of us, usually. None to be trusted except who knew us before_. But previous to that Paul had gotten himself through a long and very full day, beginning by finishing up his Christmas wrapping, which he’d initially looked forward to (“It’ll be like therapy, aye?”), and quickly found to be a thankless, unsatisfying and seemingly never-ending chore.

He’d begun like gangbusters, asking Eileen to scout out beautiful, expensive wrapping papers and fabrics and ribbons, and spending enormous amounts of time considering just how he wanted things to look. Michelle’s doll was wrapped in a foil so heavy the tape could barely hold, as was Sophie’s bracelet and the rest of his daughter’s gifts, which Eileen, asking no questions, made sure to send express, to be in time for Christmas Eve.

Jane’s gift, too, was given special consideration, the box enfolded in a translucent white fabric heavily encrusted with gold, and tied up with a silk ribbon.

But once he’d gotten past those gifts, and his father’s watch, Paul had looked at the pile before him – _what was I thinking buying out half that Irish woolens shop?_ – and made an executive decision. From that moment on, every gift would be shoved into a box, wound in all directions with ribbon, tagged and called ‘done’. He’d finished up in time for Christmas, but when he contemplated the pile of boxes in his sitting room, Macca had shaken his head, thinking the gifts all looked as though they had been wrapped by a gorilla.

Still, it was done, and when the band had shown up in the late afternoon for their traditional private Christmas Eve gathering – just drinks and silly gifts – he’d been prepared. The lads had all loved their knitted caps, as he knew they would (John put his on immediately and never took it off), and they clinked their drinks together with something very nearly like the joy of years past. Ritchie had given him a small, heavy brass frame, _(“For you to put a snap of that little gal of yours…”_ ) and George had presented Macca with a baby’s outfit of trousers and paisley’d waistcoat ( _“For that nekkid little bear, you know…”_ ).

John’s gift, of course, would come later, when he went to Weybridge for Christmas day, but to Paul the greatest gift of the little party was that he and John had been able to greet each other with warm kisses (albeit on their cheeks) in front of their best mates, and to kiss goodbye at the parting, as well. Although Ringo, a trifle in his cups, had decided by then that they should _all_ kiss each other. _(“Like continentals!”_ he had exclaimed).

The last (andonly) time they’d done that had been at the after-party following the concert at Shea, when they’d been giddy to have finally realized their shared dream _(“Toppermost of the poppermost!_ ”) and [had kissed each other “like Italian brothers at a wedding,”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19133452) as George had said.

After the lads had left, it was time to dress in one of his favorite suits (Brian had picked up much of his wardrobe weeks earlier from Wimpole Street) and head off to the Asher’s for their annual Christmas Eve party – something Paul had always missed in years past, for heading up north to his own family’s gathering.

His father had been disappointed to hear that he’d be spending Christmas Day with John and Cynthia – the first time he’d ever not been among his own – but Paul felt a little proud of himself for resisting. He knew instinctively that his large and raucous family would simply be too much for him this year -- would overwhelm him when he was just beginning to feel like he was finding his feet.

In truth, he dreaded heading there for Boxing Day as well, but he would have to turn up at his father’s sooner or later, and better not to burden anyone else over the holidays with the occasional willies that would still strike him, especially at night. So, to Wirral he would go.

It felt a little awkward knocking at the Asher’s door – he’d lived there for years, after all, and most of his personal items were still upstairs – but the locks had been changed and he had no key, so he stood, arms laden with packages, while strangers strolled past the house. Peter Asher answered the door and immediately pulled Paul into a long, box-crushing hug while he was still on the steps, until Jane shoved her brother aside and immediately threw herself into Macca’s arms, standing on tiptoe and murmuring, “I’m so glad you’ve come, love,” before suddenly realizing that the whole world was potentially watching, and pulling him inside.

Within a very short time, his gifts deposited before the tree, Paul was wearing a paper crown and picking at small sandwiches and hors d’oeuvres, grateful that – due to either a lack of curiosity or Jane’s fierce instructions – the Ashers asked no questions beyond how he was feeling, and whether his family was well. Jane remained plastered to his side, even feeding him with her own hand rather than tempting him to let go of her slim waist, and Paul found himself laughing more than he ever thought he would amid the family’s cousins and friends. After a bit, he and Jane withdrew to the fireplace and the tree, wanting a bit of privacy as they exchanged their gifts. Insisting he open his first, Jane knelt before him and watched excitedly as he unfolded an unusual blouse – part jumper, part casual white knitted shirt, knobby and comfortable-looking. He owned nothing like it.

“It’s the newest thing,” Jane said, “and when I saw it, with the seams cut so low at the arms, all I could think was how fetching it would be on your broad shoulders.”

“ _Fetching?_ ” Paul had raised his brows in amusement.

“ _Sexy,_ ” she had blushed. “But I mustn’t say that, especially at Christmas, yeah?”

It was lovely, and indeed fresh and unusual and very soft. Paul, who loved nice clothes, couldn’t wait to wear it. He was more eager to see how Jane would like her own gift, though, and she whooped with delight when he pulled her into his lap and slipped the ornate box into her hands, smiling while she undid the ribbons like a greedy child.

He’d almost forgotten how pretty the thing was and gasped nearly as loud as Jane as the gold and the scattered diamond baguettes caught the lights off the tree and the flames of the fireplace, glittering like a small galaxy in her hand. “Paul…” she sounded downright breathless as she looked into his eyes. “It’s just gorgeous! Thank you!”

Macca, his arms around her, gave a little squeeze as he brought his cheek to hers and nodded toward the bracelet. “There’s an inscription, Janey, can you see?”

Giving him a curious look, Jane peered into the underside of the bangle, turning it in her hands. “ _Lovers…friends_ ,” she read softly, and her eyes grew misty as she settled back into his arms, looking up at him. “I will treasure this, Paul,” she whispered. “For the rest of my life.”

“You like it, then,” he whispered back, feeling very pleased with himself.

“I love it. I lo—”

He didn’t let her finish her thought, pressing his lips to her own as though to keep her from speaking further. It was a gentle kiss, sweetly chaste, but warm and lingering and as he made to break off, Jane pursued it further, opening her lips and encouraging him to let her in, to let her lick into him, just a little. After a moment’s breath-held anxiety, Paul did, and the kiss began to feel less like friendship, and more like an exchange between lovers who were resettling an abandoned path, seeking out a new way to come together.

It was lovely; Paul didn’t hate it. He was even beginning to feel a little grateful to Jane for her boldness, bringing one hand to cup her face and linger at her lips, when suddenly his breath began to feel heavy, as though something were clutching at his heart. Stealing his air. _Ah, no…no…_ Jane felt his hand go to his chest, and sat back looking slightly alarmed.

“You two do know it’s Christmas, right,” came a voice from near the tree. Peter Asher was smirking at them. “If you’re going to devour each other, there’s mistletoe somewhere, but not here.”

Paul shifted in his seat, shaking his hands as he blew out his breath and gave Jane an apologetic look. “Aye. Well, Little Red here is a tempting wee Christmas elf, and I am forgetting myself, yeah?”

“What’s that you’ve got?” Peter nodded toward his sister.

“What Paul gave me,” she handed it over. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

Asher whistled in appreciation. “It really is. Why aren’t you wearing it, then?”

“If you’d _get out of here_ ,” Paul piped up feigning exasperation. “Wanted to put it on her wrist without your big honker in the way, didn’t I?”

“Alright, alright,” Peter handed it back to him with a toothy grin. “I know when I’m _de trop_.”

“ _Do_ you though,” Jane’s tone was arch and dismissive.

“Aye, get lost, Pete,” Paul added, tossing a crumpled paper at him.

“Now then… where were we,” he murmured to Jane, who had slipped from his lap and was kneeling again, leaning against his thighs.

“We were kissing,” she said softly.

Paul raised her hand and kissed it. “Like this?”

“No,” she smiled, looking just a bit regretful. “But that’s nice, too.”

Paul leaned lower, bringing his face level to hers, so pale against the glow of the fireplace. “I’m sorry, love.”

“Don’t be,” Jane whispered. “I pushed. I could feel you start to panic.”

“No, but I don’t want you blaming yourself…”

It was a startlingly intimate conversation taking place just yards away from her family, and they were practically speaking into each other’s mouths, both trying to say true things while still offering something like consolation to the other.

“But it was there, for a moment, _we_ were,” Jane encouraged, her eyes filling, “I felt it, didn’t you? Like… we were normal, or close to it, for a moment?”

“Aye,” Paul said as quietly, closing his eyes as he leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Yes, I felt it, too, love. But… but then--”

“You got scared, I know…I know…”

“Not of _you_ , Red. Never of you.”

“I know…” Jane’s voice broke. She took Paul’s face into her hands and kissed first one cheek, then the other, then his lips, swiftly, a single tear escaping down her own face. “But I won’t push. I can wait. It just…” She wiped the tear away with the back of her hand, like a very small child, and then smiled bravely. “It made me _hopeful_ , you know? Like, for the first time, I felt like--”

“Yes,” Paul repeated. “I know.” He pulled her into a hug, his arms going around her upper back, and stroked the length of her hair, showing copper in the flickering light. “I _know_ , love. Thank you for being patient with me.”

He could feel her nod against him, could hear the wet gulp that stopped her words from coming, and pulled back. “You’re so pretty, Janey,” he couldn’t help but smile. “I couldn’t possibly make you prettier, my girl, but you must give me your hand now, anyway, and let me try?”

Lifting her hand, he kissed it once more, and then held the bracelet before her. When she frowned at him, he met her eye and pointedly pressed the bracelet to his lips, kissing it, before moving to place it on her slender wrist. Jane put out a hand to stop him. And this time, as Paul frowned, she drew his hand to her and kissed the bracelet as well, pulling away with a grave look. “There, now, we’ve shown this as something special to both of us, haven’t we? Kissed it as a token of our friendship. And as a promise of all we will still be to each other? _Friends…lovers_?”

Paul had his doubts, but hoped to squash them this night. He could only respond with a deep breath, like a sigh of resignation, but one edged in hope. He looked down, his hand trembling a little as he slipped the fiery bangle to her wrist, and then held her hand in his.

When the rest of the family came in moments later, the two were still seated so, their heads tipped together, staring at the way the jewelry caught the lights and shimmered as Paul spun the bracelet round and round Jane’s wrist, like a tiny wheel of fortune.

When he’d insisted that he must keep his promise to Father Sean, Jane had walked him to the waiting taxi wishing he would not go. She’d hugged him almost desperately before finally letting Paul get into the car.

“I’ll see you in a few days, Little Red,” he promised, kissing his fingers at her as they’d parted.

***

The phone was ringing. It wouldn’t stop. Paul felt himself being pulled from sleep and tried to resist, but the ringing went on and on. Finally, lifting his head from Theodore’s belly and wiping drool from the corner of his mouth, he reached for the receiver, groaning a sleepy hello into it.

“Alright, Macca? Merry Krimble!” John’s voice boomed through the line as though he believed he was using a tin can and string and must shout to be heard.

“Happy Christmas,” Paul coughed, pulling the phone from his ear and blinking a bit. “What time is it?”

“It’s time for you to get your ass over here. Julian is up and plowing through gifts like an insatiable bandit, and Unca Paw needs to show up soon, or he’ll go out of his ever-lovin’ mind.” John lowered his voice to a more intimate level. “You alright, baby? Did you sleep alright alone?”

“I’m good,” Paul still sounded bleary. “Got in very late and,” he looked down at himself, still fully clothed. “Slept in my best suit, dammit, belt and all.”

“That’s how you torque your balls, son,” John warned seriously. “Gotta at least undo the belt and…” He stopped himself, unwilling to bring up a hated image: Paul, pants unzipped and torn.

“Yeah, yeah.” Macca, thankfully, was still too out of it to make the connection. “Gimme an hour, Johnny,” he slurred. “And I’ll be there with bells on.”

“We’re lookin’ for Santa’s helper, doll, not Tinkerbell.”

“And you can fuck right off, too, love,” Paul chuckled, hanging up before Lennon could respond.

***

True to his word, Macca managed to pull up to the Lennon homestead with minutes to spare and needing his partner’s help to bring all of his presents inside. “So glad you took the trouble to make ‘em pretty, Macca,” John teased as he regarded the gorilla wrap-jobs.

“The one I managed to paper is for Mimi when you see her,” he informed his partner. “And the biggest box is for you and Cyn, the rest are all for Julian, _speaking of which_ ,” he raised his voice as he headed to the house’s great room, “Where is Prince Julian? Who will help me with all of these presents? Ugh! They’re so heavy, and so many, and I need help!”

His words were drowned out by the scream of an already overexcited toddler. “Unca Paw! Unca Paw, Sanna cane!”

“He did, and look, Jules, he left some of your stuff at my place by mistake!” He blew a helpless kiss in Cyn’s direction as Julian relentlessly tugged him tree-ward. “I guess we’ll have to see what-all it is, won’t we?”

Cynthia made her way to her husband, smiling and shaking her head at the commotion coming from the other corner of the room. “He’s a five-year-old,” she concluded. “No matter what else Paul is or ever will be, he’s got the heart of a little boy.”

“A reckless and impudent little boy,” came a terse voice from behind her as Mimi, in all her stiff-necked glory, returned from a visit to the loo. As soon as he heard the voice, Paul stopped what he was doing, rising from the little play circle he was creating with Julian and immediately seeking out Mimi with a smile and then a long and extended hug – one that John Lennon’s auntie answered, wrapping her thin arms around the boy she still loved to carp at, and who had so recently scared her half to death. “I am so glad to see you, son,” she had murmured, quietly, so no one else could hear.

Paul said nothing, only smiling and kissing the top of her head as he felt the older women pull away, her eyes glistening, but betraying nary a tear. “You’ve gone too thin,” she scolded instantly, “you could use a little of the old puppy fat on you.”

“Well, that’s because you’ve not come down to cook for me,” he scolded back. “All this time, not a phone call, not a note, no offer to come down and fatten me up with your breakfasts and your teas and chocolates.”

“As though you’d not [push me aside and take over](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/45809215) the instant I stepped into your kitchen,” she huffed, giving him a push. “Don’t try me, boy. I know you all too well, don’t I?”

The pair continued to badger each other as they returned to Julian, and Cynthia couldn’t help but turn to John and remark with a touch of bitterness that if only John could have married Paul, “Mimi might have had a satisfactory in-law at last.”

John’s eyes had nearly bulged out of his head at her words. After a moment, he threw his head back in a bark of amusement, pulling Cynthia into a hug. “No, love, you make her much, _much_ more unhappy than Paul ever could,” he said. “She may enjoy having a go at him, but she _loves_ being appalled by you!” He couldn’t stop chuckling and by the time he’d taken Cynthia’s chin into his hand and gazed down at her with a smile, she was smiling too. “You see, Cyn, darling, in the end you win! You may yet end up being her most favorite person in the world!”

Nearly an hour’s raucous play with Unca Paw had rendered the two-year-old Julian nearly catatonic with exhaustion and when Cyn brought out a bottle, an equally weary Paul had taken it gratefully. “Up here, Captain Jules,” he smiled as the boy climbed into his lap. “Come have your ba’ with me, then, aye?”

He continued to talk to the toddler as Julian smiled at him and drank, his eyes growing heavier by the minute. Mimi, carrying the gift Paul meant for her, sank down to the couch beside him, watching as the young man continued to coo and calm the child he held so comfortably. “You should have one of your own, Paul,” she advised in her commanding voice. “You’re a natural father, you know. The most natural of the four of you.”

“Oh, I dunno about that,” he answered quietly, taking a bit of umbrage on behalf of his mates. “Ritchie’s a very warm daddy to his, and John does well with Jules, here, too, you know.”

“Nevertheless,” Mimi said, her teeth clicking as though the issue was beyond decided. “You’re the one who understands children best. And you’ll never be complete, you know, until you have a brood of your own like every other Irish Catholic I’ve ever known, the poor wife pushing one out every year, like a winter crop.”

Paul suppressed a gurgle and this time pretended offense. “Truly, you are a terrible woman, Mimi. The things you say!”

“Well, it’s only the truth, lad.”

“Aye, the Truth According to Mimi Smith, and I’m pretty sure I am the only Irish Catholic you’ve ever deigned to let past your threshold, you know. And you’ve brow-beaten me for it, a-plenty.”

“Oh, pish-posh,” the older woman snorted. “I’m sure I’ve treated all of John’s friends in exactly the same way.”

Paul opened his mouth to disagree and then paused to consider. “Aye, mayhap you have at that.”

“Ugh, and don’t scouse at me, young man. I know you know better.” She nodded toward Julian, who had fallen asleep, the rubber nub of the bottle between his teeth. “Look at him,” she cooed, sounding almost human. “You should get that little girl of yours pregnant – she’s of noble blood you know. Marry her and start a family of your own.”

“A bit young for that,” Paul laughed, quietly, so as not to disturb his armful. “Not even sure I even want to marry, you know. But even if I did, Janey’s only nineteen. I’m not twenty-four yet.”

“The perfect ages to start,” Mimi insisted, though she’d never been pregnant, herself. “If you can turn that one’s head away from the cameras and get her concentrating on giving you a son.”

Macca turned to her, his eyes letting her know she was nearing a line he would certainly draw. “I think daughters are just as good,” he said quietly. “Like I said, she’s only nineteen, Mimi. And I’ve had my chance to chase my dream. Seems right that she should have a chance to chase her own.”

“You of all people should save her from such a silly, hopeless, dangerous dream; it’s certainly one you must lately say has done you more harm than good.”

And there, she’d gone and done it. The instant the words had left her mouth, Mimi knew she’d trod into a most dangerous territory and as carelessly and recklessly as her often-thoughtless nephew ever could. Paul only gave her a blank expression and then excused himself, rising to find Cyn, and get Julian rightly settled in.

“I cannot believe you said that,” John murmured from a doorway, where he’d heard the whole thing. “Mimi, how could you?”

Mimi didn’t look up. She was fiddling with the package in her lap, running her fingertips over the careful seams Paul had made, tracing the red ribbon that decorated the edges. She shook her head at herself, still refusing to meet his gaze. “You know, sometimes, this game between us… I lose track of what is play and what is not.”

“Well, I can certainly understand that,” her nephew shrugged as he moved to sit near her. “But I’m expected to say rude and asinine things, ain’t I? That’s my part of the play. But Mimi, for once… well, you’ve truly gone and made a balls of it.”

“I have,” she agreed. “How do I…” Finally, she met John’s eyes. “What do I do?”

“Leave him be, for now,” Lennon advised, speaking very gently to the woman whose whole life had been a source of abrasion to all and sundry. “He’s angry with you, and no one knows better than me that when Macca is angry, he needs his space.”

“Better than I,” Mimi corrected, unable to help herself.

“Oh, Christ, you sound just like him, sometimes.” John let her stew for a moment and then nudged his auntie’s shoulder with his own. “He won’t stay mad at you for long; he never does. But you do need to talk to him.”

“But what shall I _say_?” Her tone suggested that she knew exactly what she needed to say, but dreaded it.

“Well, don’t keep tellin’ him to have another baby, just now, whatever you do,” John answered without thinking as he lit cigarettes for both of them. Mimi accepted it and smoked for a minute before a new thought dawned. “Wait…” she turned to him, wondering. “Did you say ‘another’ baby?”

She’d found him out on the back patio, leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded about himself except when he needed to draw on his cigarette. “There you are,” she said, stepping out and closing the door behind her. She still carried his unopened gift with her. “You’ll catch your death out here.”

Paul gave her a rather disinterested side-eye. “As will you, Mimi. We’re both too thin, but I’m sure I’ve got more meat than you. Best you get back inside, now.”

She gave him an affronted scoff. “Nonsense. I am dressed sensibly, you know.”

The young man tossed his cigarette into the damp grass and rubbed his eyes, standing up straight. “What is it you want, Mimi? I’ve not slept much, and I am afraid my best manners will soon fail me.”

“Your ‘best manners’,” she mused, “they’re often better than most people’s and today I am afraid they have been better than mine.” She reached out a hand, her thin fingers clutching at his forearm as she looked up at him, and waited for him to return her gaze. When he finally did, she rushed out the words before her nerves could fail her.

“I’m sorry Paul,” she said, her eyes round with sincerity. “I am so sorry, lad. I was… thoughtless. It was thoughtless of me.”

Macca took in her look and, after a moment, nodded his head. “It certainly will soar to the top of your charts, you know – right up there with calling me a sheep-eyed Mick who needed to go home and take a _baaahth_. Number 2 with a bullet.”

“I suppose that’s what John calls ‘music-lingo’, then?” Mimi could not help herself. “I’m afraid I do not understand that language.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the lad said, studying the cracks in the concrete and wrapping his arms more tightly about himself. “Not sure there’s any language that could explain it to you.”

She stood before him, then, standing ramrod straight as she waited for him to finally raise his head and look at her. “I’ve hurt you.” 

Paul did not deny it, or give her an easy out. 

“John comes by it honestly, you know,” she said in a softer voice. “If his parents planted the seed to his hardness, I was the one who watered and nurtured it. But please, even if you cannot forgive me…please know that if I spoke stupidly, and of course I did…it was never with malice. And I am truly sorry. Sometimes I just--”

“Let it go, Mimi,” Paul interrupted, suddenly amused by the thought that if Mimi had to lower herself any further she would be wearing her hat between her knees, and he’d never stop laughing. “You’re perfectly right, you now. All of our success… precious little of it has made us happy. John _hates_ this house. He’s glad to have bought a nice little place for you, but he’d be more content in London -- or even Ireland, if you want to have a laugh -- playing straight up rock and roll and not having to posture for the press or be a prop for a hundred different interests that are not his own. And Georgie would be glad to never tour again.”

“And you, son? What would you prefer?”

Macca rubbed his face again, realizing he truly was very tired. He slipped into a chair and gestured toward Mimi to take the other. “I like music. I’d be content to write for others, though, you know.” He lit another cigarette. _She’s going to say I’m smoking too much…_ “I love performing, truly, but I’d not mind getting out of the line of fire, away from the flashes and the gossip columns. Just write for others and be a bit quiet.”

“You and John could never live without working together,” Mimi said. “And excuse me, son, but you are smoking too much.”

He shook his head, unable to hide a smile. “You’re getting predictable, Mimi,” he said, blowing a cloud around himself and mused in a softer voice. “Johnny and I will always work together in one way or another.”

Mimi hadn’t missed how tenderly the boy referenced her nephew. It had always struck her as an almost uncontrollable softness within Paul. He could be a hard lad, she knew that. But never about her John. “You should have a holiday,” she said quietly, shivering a little at the noontime shadows.

“You should open your present,” Paul smiled. “You could use it, now.”

“Oh yes?” Mimi’s eyebrows reached to her hairline. “Almost a shame to break it open, given how beautifully it’s wrapped.”

Macca tugged at a corner of ribbon, pulling it away. “Have at it, old lady.”

“Ugh, you brazen thing, you.” But she began tearing at the paper, ignoring the thrifty voice that told her to be careful so as to reuse it. As she raised the box lid she noticed Paul watching her intently and narrowed her eyes at him. “What have you done, you sly lad?”

Her hand landed on something soft and wooly, and she lifted out the cream-colored Aran shawl with a gasp. “Oh, goodness,” she murmured. “This looks wonderfully warm.” She instantly put it about her shoulders and then ran her hands along the cabled knit.

“Do you know what it is?” Paul frowned.

“Of course I do,” Mimi huffed. “It’s one of those Irish things. The women on that island knit them.”

“Aye, but…”

“But what, then?”

“Well, you were supposed to hate it. I’d planned on your hating it.”

“Ha!” Mimi seemed delighted to see the lad so nonplussed. “I may be a bigot, but I knew fine craftsmanship when I see it.” She drew it closer to her. “This is delightfully warm. Thank you, Paul. It is magnificent. As are you, lad.”

“ _Shhhite_ ,” he cursed to himself, hearing John’s aunt almost cackle in satisfaction.

***

John and Cynthia were equally pleased with the bedspread Paul had given them, thick and woven in soft tones of cream and blue and oatmeal. “I am going to slip it on the bed right after dinner,” Cynthia had pronounced, carrying it upstairs. I cannot wait to sleep beneath this.”

And in truth, she didn’t wait. After a dinner of fresh ham, all manner of root vegetables and a Christmas pudding, Cynthia had disappeared upstairs with her mother and Mimi. The three women re-made the Lennon’s bed and then wet about prepping a late tea while Paul and John once again threw about with Julian until he needed a nap. By then, the women did, too, and as they each fell first into a stupor, and then into slumber – Mimi’s teacup quite unusually settled on her knee – John nudged Paul in the ribs. “Get your coat, love. Let’s have a quick turn about the garden, yeah?”

Nighttime was following hard upon the gloaming, and a full moon was lighting their way as Paul followed John out into the yard, his hands pushed deeply into his pockets. “The grass is wet,” he complained. “I’ll ruin me shoon.”

“They’re leather, ain’t they?”

“Still, though.”

“I won’t keep you out long, love,” Lennon said, taking Paul’s arm and leading him to a far corner of the park, dark with evergreens. “I just wanted to give you your pressie, you know,” he looked into his partner’s eyes. “Just private, like.”

“Ah, Johnny, you’re not gonna try to snog with me when any one of those women could come out at any moment,” Paul teased.

“Now, that’s an idea!” Before Paul could stop him, John pulled him into a kiss -- full-on, warm thin lips on warm plump ones -- before releasing the younger lad. “Just a prelude, yeah?”

“A prelude to what,” Macca sounded suspicious.

“Give me your hand,” John smiled at him. “And close your eyes.”

Paul smiled back, laying out his palm but keeping his eyes open. “It’s getting’ dark,” he said. 

“Alright, then, stubborn, don’t close your eyes. Just look down.” John placed something hard and cold at its center, and closed Paul’s fingers around it. “Happy Christmas, my love.”

Paul opened his hand and stopped breathing. “John! But…but this is yours!”

“Aye, love, and now it’s yours. The finest gift anyone ever gave me, and I want you to have it. I _need_ you to have it, Macca-love.”’

“I thought you’d lost it,” his partner marveled. “Haven’t seen it on you in so long…”

“Never wanted to risk that happening, you know – losing it -- so I’ve kept it at home.” John’s eyes looked a bit moist. “Besides… I know it sounds a bit soft but… figured when I was travelin’ with you, I didn’t need it. Had my real angel with me, didn’t I?”

What Paul held in his hand was a small brooch, an inexpensive pewter rending of a guardian angel, holding a lantern. He had bought it for John in Paris, meant it as a twenty-first birthday present for his partner. Modest as it was, Paul had been skint and it had taken almost all the cash he’d brought with him to purchase the thing, leaving him with only enough money to buy a crappy hamburger for Lennon on the actual day. This gift, this angel, he had presented to John on their last night in the city. A last romantic moment, [played out on a bridge before all of Paris](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119496) where, it had seemed to Paul, they had truly, lastingly, [fallen in love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611301).

“I can’t take this off you, love,” he was saying now, trying to refuse the gift, even as John was unbuttoning Paul’s coat.

“You’ll wear it on the inside, like you made me do,” Lennon asserted, carefully positioning the angel on the smooth inner lining, fastening it into place and closing the coat. He ran his hand over Paul’s chest. “Just over your heart, right there,” he murmured with a grin. “As you made me wear it, back then.” 

“Johnny,” Paul began, his voice quickly going husky. "I... _you..._ " His eyes grew moist as he looked at his partner. _"Johnny,"_ he repeated, having no words that seemed adequate to the moment, so unexpected, so fraught with memory and meaning.

“Now, there is no point at all in arguing about this with me, darling,” Lennon insisted. “This is a guardian angel, and right now I want you to have it. I _need_ you to have it. I want..." he couldn't stop the grimace of regret that came over his face. John found himself biting his lip, needing a moment to swallow back all the guilt-laden words that would only ruin the day and burden Paul. "I _need_ to feel like… like you’re bein’ watched over if I’m not around.” The hard recollection of that night -- one night that changed everything for the couple -- forced him to look away as he finished. “Or even if I _am_ around, but too damn selfish to be looking out for you.”

“Johnny,” Macca tried again, his hand coming out to cup his lover’s face. “Don’t, Johnny, _don’t_ do that. It was never your fault.”

John Lennon closed his eyes for a moment, pressing his cheek into Paul’s warm, loving hand. Then he looked down at the grass, taking a deep breath as he enveloped that hand within his own and squeezed it. “You can _never, ever get hurt again_ , Macca. Okay? Do you hear me? Never, _ever_. Do you understand? I’ll not survive it.” Raising Paul’s hand to his lips, he kissed the knuckles and then offered him a fleeting smile. “Baby, it’s entirely selfish of me, but I believe if you can carry our Theodore about, aye, and sleep with him, then you can wear our angel, too, can’t you? Love? To please me?”

His heart feeling too full for words, Paul simply brought his partner into a full-bodied hug, pressing tightly and nodding into his neck, as Lennon nearly hugged the very breath from his lungs. In the shadows of their distant corner, they kissed softly, lingering just a little more than they'd done in the past month before Paul needed to pull away, murmuring an awkward apology.

“It's enough, love. Enough that you're here with me, now. Thank you for spending Christmas with me,” John whispered, his lips just grazing below Macca's ear. “My darling lad. And thank you for wearing my angel.”

***

The plan had been for Paul to spend the night at Weybridge, enjoy a Boxing Day breakfast with his hosts and then go back to his flat, picking up the gifts for Wirral and catching an afternoon flight to Liverpool. But as the house had settled in for sleep, Paul had found himself restless, and it wasn’t -- he smiled at the thought – because he’d left his Theodore at home. He’d tossed and turned for nearly two hours in one of the Lennon’s guest rooms, laying his book aside and staring miserably at the darkened ceiling, his mind feeling like it was racing, yet nothing like a fully formed thought coming to the fore. Finally, unable to stand another minute of this nameless distraction, he headed downstairs, where he plugged in the Christmas tree and sat in a state of unsettled discontent, smoking and sipping at one of John’s fine whiskeys and watching the lights as they blinked.

“Can’t sleep either, can you,” Mimi’s voice came from behind him as she moved through the room, finally settling in the chair nearest his. She was wearing Paul’s gift over her robe. “You wouldn’t be able to pour out one of those for the old girl, now, would you?”

He slipped his ciggie into his mouth and squinted through the smoke, pouring a stiff finger out for John’s auntie and handing it off.

“I hope you’re not still ruminating on my miserable _faux pas_ earlier,” she wondered, her voice uncertain.

Paul shook his head, drawing his mouth down. “Naw, Mimi. Nothing like that. I couldn’t tell you what was bothering me if I knew. Just a bit out of sorts.”

“Well,” Mimi sipped and drew out a cigarette of her own. “This is almost like old times, then. Me stumbling awake to find you [brooding and drinking someone else’s whiskey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/46130065) at three in the morning. All we need is a bit of chocolate-”

She barely got the word out before the lad shoved a box under her face. Ah, yes. John’s endless inventory of Bourneville chocolates. Mimi didn’t particularly care for them, but John had overpurchased and was desperate to see them gone, so she took one anyway. Paul, entirely sick of them, because John had filled his flat with them too, did not.

“It’s what I said before, you know,” Mimi piped up as she chewed and then chased it all down with the liquor. “You need a holiday, a change of pace and scenery.”

“Havin’ one, ain’t I,” Paul said in a gruffer tone than he’d intended. “Headin’ up to Wirral tomorrow – I mean today – to see the family.”

“Mmm, well, Jim McCartney is always good company, I’ve found.”

“Really, you amaze me,” Paul bit back a smile.

“But the rest of them? They’re not what I’d call a holiday.”

This time the smile could not be hidden. “And so, what would _you_ call a holiday, then, Mimi?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” The older woman swallowed back a bit more of the drink. “I’m very happy to spend a few days with John, you know,” she continued, staring into the tree. “It seems to me if you have a child – and John is the nearest I ever got to one – then the best holiday is the one where you get to spend a bit of time, together. Reconnect, you know. Or sometimes just connect, for the very first time.”

Without looking at him, she could feel Macca’s eyes on her; she could sense the slight nod of his head.

“Well,” she finished her drink, stubbing out her ciggie. “I’m off. That bit of drink did me.” She patted Paul’s shoulder as she walked past him. “Goodnight, lad. See you at breakfast, aye?’

He nodded again. “Goodnight, Mimi.”

And then he turned back to the tree, still trying to gather his thoughts.

Five hours later, as the Lennon household trooped into the kitchen to kick off breakfast and start their day, Cynthia found a paper near the tea kettle and handed it to John, who had just found his glasses.

Briefly, in Paul’s fine penmanship, it read,

_Loves,_

_Thank you for a most wonderful Christmas Day,_

_but I’m afraid I must away._

_I am off to meet my daughter._

_P_


	40. As the Good Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a rush job packing, and three very different phone calls -- including one long, emotional call with John, who feels abandoned, and forces Paul to give him some necessary truths that neither of them really want to hear (but also to present one idea that both of them appreciate) -- Paul makes his way to France, and to Sophie and Michelle, and what potentially promises to be one surprise after another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is a little bit of a challenge to re-introduce Sophie -- and next chapter you, along with Paul, will finally meet that little scamp named Michelle. But I am actually sort of proud of this chapter, and of the hard but needed discussion John and Paul have before Paul can take off for France. I really hope you like it!

It would be a two-hour drive from Paris to the small vineyard in the Loire Valley which Paul was imagining. As he settled in for the ride he wondered, not for the first time, if he wasn’t making a huge mistake in traveling so far on so fast an impulse. One minute, he’d been talking to Mimi before the bright lights of John’s Christmas tree, and the next he’d been repacking his overnight bag and scrawling a hasty note.

And now, he was mere hours away from meeting his daughter, from re-connecting with Sophie who – a few weeks in Hamburg and one beautiful afternoon aside – was still mostly a stranger to him. Paul looked out the window at the sun setting over France, and exhaled hugely.

A part of him was terrified. Most of him was terrified, in fact. He wasn’t used to traveling alone and it suddenly occurred to him that he’d never really traveled anywhere – outside of occasional drives up to Wirral – without one of his mates alongside him. Ringo and Mo had gone to Greece with him and Jane. He and Georgie had frequently traveled together when they were kids, and then of course, John. When was the last time he’d been anywhere without John right beside him?

He’d felt it, felt the absence of company when he’d landed in Paris.

 _Paris? The City of Light without John?_ The idea was unthinkable.

But Paris wasn’t his real destination, was it? And within minutes of disembarking, he’d been met by a chauffeur in full regalia. He’d argued against that, futilely, telling Sophie that she needn’t hire a driver for him, but she had insisted. Just as she had insisted that he must come immediately, must follow his gut-feeling before he overthought the thing. Recalling that now, the corners of Paul’s lips lifted slightly as he watched the sunset from his back seat window. He hadn’t remembered Sophie as being such a bossy and resolute little thing.

He’d been a little harried, searching haphazardly through stacks of books, magazines and bills before finding the letter with her number stored, quite sensibly, in his nightstand. That anxious state carried over into the phone call itself, too, for when the foreign-sounding ring had been answered, he’d blurted out, “Sophie, did you _mean_ it? Can I still come to visit, even though I’m last-minute?”

“Who is this calling, please,” came the response.

“Oh, I’m sorry, it’s Paul! Paul McCartney! Sophie, is that you?” It occurred to him that the voice sounded more mature than he’d expected.

“If you will please wait, I will find the mademoiselle.” Paul could hear the receiver being placed down before he could say ‘ _merci_ ,’ and then wondered, in an almost disoriented way, whether perhaps the voice had actually been male. _You’re such an ass_ , he thought. _Probably her uncle who now thinks Paul McCartney is a clumsy oaf with no manners._

Of course, chances were good that her uncle already had a long-standing and firm opinion on Paul McCartney, one perhaps along the lines of ‘shoot-on-sight’. He probably had such thoughts every time he looked at Marie-Michelle and then at his still-unwed niece.

Macca was biting deeply into his bottom lip at that thought -- and asking himself why in heaven’s name he was still on the line -- when a much livelier, obviously young and female voice came through.

“Paul! Is this you? _Raiment?_ ”

“Sophie!” Relieved to be pulled out of his own head, Paul nevertheless found himself at a loss for words. He felt for a moment like a sparrow picking at the ground for conversational worms -- as though he’d forgotten how to be social. “I…I…Sophie, am I calling too early? I mean… I just… How _are_ you?”

“I am well, Paul! And quite awake! _Joyeux Noel!_ ”

“Oh…yeah, Happy Christmas to you! And—and to Michelle, of course!”

“ _Mais oui_ , but she is having a very happy Christmas, and will not let go of the beautiful baby doll her papa has so sweetly sent for her!”

Paul felt the tension in his shoulders dissipate as he beamed in delight and threw himself upon his couch with a sigh of relief. He had so hoped the little girl would take to his gift. “She likes it, then?”

“ _Absolument!_ It is all she adores! I should have called to say so, and to let her make her thanks, but I was not sure I should.”

Paul smiled, feeling ridiculously pleased with himself for having pleased his daughter. “You can always call me, Sophie,” he offered, “Especially to tell me something good.”

“Well, with that permission, I will, then, as the good comes.” The girl sounded delighted.

“Ah… well… _good_.”

And like that, the conversation dried up as Paul became again awkward about inviting himself into her life.

“So…” Sophie began.

“So…” Paul started at the same time.

Another silence. _God save us from false starts_ , he thought to himself. _In for a penny, in for a pound, then_. “I was wondering, Sophie…” he began

“… said something about you coming to visit?” She was plowing ahead, talking over him. “And of course, I am so glad! When will you come?”

“I—” Paul sputtered, looking into the phone for a moment, as though Sophie was in the receiver. “I—well…I guess… _today!_ Can I come today?” He was sounding more uncertain of himself by the second. “Am I rude? Only, if that won’t do--”

“But of course, you must instantly come while it is still Christmas, _oui?_ Fly into Paris and I will have you met by a driver and brought to our little vineyard.”

“That’s not necessary, Sophie, I can rent a car.”

“But no, to find us is a long drive and too confusing! You must book a flight, _aussitôt_ , and then again call to tell me when you will arrive and there will be for you a driver as you come down from the plane! It is a real plan, now, _oui?”_

Her question had brought back a memory: Sophie declaring _,[“It is a real deal, oui?”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/57433279)_ Ordering him to lunch through a bathroom door as he’d tried to bathe. Yes, perhaps Sophie always had been a little bit of a boss, after all. She had left no room for him to object to lunch all those years ago, and she was giving him no out, now.

“And in the while,” she continued with enthusiasm, “I will move _ma mère_ from her so detested little house to the main cottage.”

“Oh now, that sounds ominous,” Paul joked. “Perhaps I am asking too much of you?”

“It is a true sacrifice I make for you, _oui,_ ” Sophie affected a resigned sigh, “but a most happy one. And perhaps because you rescue her from isolation _ma mère_ will then be better deposed to you? Is that how to say?”

“Deposed,” Paul wondered, his brow lowering. “You, you mean ‘better disposed’! Dear God, what am I walking into, Sophie? Perhaps we should try for another time? When _ma mère_ has gone home?”

“But no! You must come, and today, I insist,” Sophie teased, “if only to be _l’antidote_ to her! And you must see the little one, so tender with her baby, before the face is smashed.”

Paul’s chuckle was audible. [_‘She’ll smash it in a week,’_ Dawson had warned](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/64828651). It seemed his little girl was a scrapper, indeed, and the cop’s instincts had been right. _Well, he’d seen her picture, after all._ _I guess a copper would know_ , he thought.

“Alright,” he gave in. “I will come today, tonight. First flight I can find.”

Normally he’d have hated bothering Eileen for a favor on a Sunday but, fueled by the excitement of this new idea – one so unplanned and therefore completely different for him – Paul forgave himself for intruding upon her. Eileen, ever a good sport, didn’t mind. He’d left his flight number with Sophie (who jumped on his call so quickly he assumed she’d been waiting by the telephone) and was throwing clean clothes, and the late-purchased knitted gifts, into his luggage as his phone rang.

He anticipated hearing his father’s voice, gruffly wondering why he had not yet left for Wirral, so Paul was surprised to hear Lennon on the line.

“Blimey, Paulie, I’ve seen you make more poignant farewells to those nameless birds you used to bonk between sets up in Liddypool, than the one you left for me. And now, I’ve Cyn beating on me for not telling her about your baby, too!”

Paul was grateful his partner could not see him blushing. “You’ve never told Cyn? Can’t believe it, mate.”

“Figured it was yours to tell, son. And you’ll have to deal with her about it when you come back. She’s all, ‘Why didn’t he tell me? Am I the last to know? At least you married me!’ Which, by the way, is quite right. I did, and all.”

“Ah, John,” Paul lit a cigarette and blew a cloud, picking up Theodore and staring at him. “My head’s dinnlin’. Tryin’ to just go with this and not thinkin’ about it too much, aye?”

“But why just now, for heaven’s sake? I mean, Macca, you just... you ran out on Christmas!”

 _You ran out on me!_ John’s subtext came through to Paul, loud and clear. 

_Oh, Christ, I did! Fuck me!_

His stomach sank at the realization. “Oh God… Christ, I’m sorry, Johnny,” he started.

“Julian is wondering why Unca Paw disappeared like magic,” John continued, talking over him and sounding like he was gulping at the air. “I mean, Bunny, when I gave you the guardian angel, I didn’t mean for you to go hoppin’ over the water the very next day…”

The words were spoken lightly, but they landed hard, and were meant to. Lennon’s voice lowered to a near whisper. “Paulie, you… just left. You took off on me.”

Perhaps better than anyone else on the planet, Paul knew exactly those last five words meant – and what it meant for John to say them. _You took off on me…_

John Lennon was hurting. And Macca understood all too well just where, and why, and how. He understood, too, that he was the source of the hurt, something he had sworn never to be. Wincing, he cursed at himself for causing his lover a new and unnecessary bruise around such an old and deep wound -- one he’d meant to spend his whole life helping to heal.

_Shit… he’ll never trust me again. I’ve broken his trust. What is wrong with me?_

“Johnny,” his voice went low with shame. “I’m sorry, Sweet. Truly, I’m sorry. T’was thoughtless of me to just take off, without seeing you and explaining.”

“But why’d you _go_ , Macca?” Paul noted that his apology went unanswered. John, sounding almost childlike in his vulnerability, wasn’t hearing it yet; he was still lost in the fog of abandonment that could rise and overwhelm his senses as suddenly as the thickest pea soup could encompass London. “Why did you just _leave_ me – go away like that?”

Clutching Theodore to his chest, Paul sighed into the phone. “John, love,” he murmured, “please forgive me for hurting you… please. I have no excuse except for being thoughtless.”

“You _forgot_ me…”

Paul closed his eyes against the words, hating to hear them, hating to know they were true. Hating that he’d let John down so badly, and so easily. And there could be no excuse for it, he knew, no way to finesse this. Only the truth would do. “I never forgot you, love,” he tried to explain. “If I’d forgotten you, I’d not have left the note.”

 _Weak sauce, weak sauce,_ he scolded himself _. A note is just basic manners, not love. Again, Macca, what is wrong with you. You know better!_

“Honey,” he tried again, speaking very calmly against the sound of John’s stilted breathing. “John, love, are you alone right now? No one nearby?”

“I’m in my room. You were supposed to be _here_ , today, Paul.”

“Babe…” Paul sighed again, utterly despising himself for bringing out this frightened, clingy side of his partner. He held tighter to the teddy bear, wishing John could feel the embrace over the wires. “Johnny, listen to me, then. Listen closely, alright? John, _I love you_. And—and I know that sounds cheap right now, and that’s my fault, because I should have at least woken you before I left. But I’m not just saying it. _I love you_. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” John was not ready to give an inch.

 _Nor should he._ Paul was going into a full self-flagellation mode, disgusted with himself and what felt like an impossible mistake to make right.

“And you know I mean it, don’t you? Johnny?”

“You never say it. You never say it as much as I do.” The words were whispered, and they sounded wet with tears.

“You’re right, Sweetheart, I don’t say it enough. I should tell you I love you more often than I do. But that’s my mistake, my badness, yeah?”

“You can’t help it,” John’s voice broke. “I know you can’t help it.”

_Oh God… he forgives like a child. That’s why he always aches. And now it’s me that’s hurt him._

“Johnny, you’re gonna make me cry, now,” Paul warned. He could feel his eyes welling up, the burn of unreleased tears. “Listen to me, alright, pet? Are you listening? Sweetheart, can you hear me clearly?”

There was a sniff. Paul could almost see John wiping his nose with his sleeve. “Yes.”

“Alright then.” It felt like talking to a child, as though Paul were dealing with his own little one, whom he would never want to hurt. “If I don’t say it enough, I am saying it now: _I do love you, so very much._ ” He made sure to enunciate each word clearly. “You have to know that. And I was very thoughtless and very selfish to take off without seeing you first, and explaining. And _I am sorry_ for doing that. With my whole heart, I am sorry, my love. I wish I had not done it. Do you hear me saying that, now?”

Another wet sound came in response, and Paul’s heart felt like it would break from it.

“Alright. Love… Can you forgive me?”

He couldn’t be sure whether John was responding with a ‘yes’ or a hiss.

“Johnny,” he whispered. “My leaving was nothing to do with you. It’s… it’s all about me, and the mess of a man I’ve become, and all the things I have to sort out about myself that have nothing at all to do with what I feel for you.”

“But…”

“And what I feel for you is something I don’t feel for anyone else in the world – not anyone else in the universe, Johnny. This thing with us, it’s in my soul, you know.”

“But…”

Paul stopped interrupting, realizing he could not forever avoid hearing what he knew John needed to say, what was buzzing at the core of all of this insecurity. “But what, love,” he asked gently.

“But… Paul…” He could hear John’s hard swallow. “What if you find out you love Sophie more than me? Or Michelle more than you love me?”

“Oh, Johnny!” Paul felt his own heart lurch in his chest. “Johnny, my sweet boy… that can’t happen!”

 _Oh can’t it?_ His own personal demon seemed suddenly roused to hiss in his ear. _Are you going to tell him you will love him more than your own child? Can you make that promise? And what will it mean for your little girl, then? Who does Daddy love more, then? Johnny or this babe you’ve never seen? Who do you love, Macca? Who do you really love, besides yourself, then?_

Feeling downright haunted, Paul shuddered, literally shivering the thought off of his shoulders. “Johnny,” he whispered, unsure of what he should say now, or perhaps ever, “Sweetheart, I’ll be back in four days. I couldn’t possibly love anyone more than you in four days. Or four years.” Paul pressed his fingertips to his eyes, trying to control himself as self-directed anger and uncertainty began to bubble up within him. _What am I doing? Maybe I should cancel this and just go back to him? But… but… what if Sophie has already told Michelle I’m coming? She’ll be crushed. Christ, this is a mess. I’ve made a fucking mess of it all. And I’ve hurt John._

“But forty years,” Lennon was saying. “In forty _years_ , you might love them more.”

“In forty years we may all be dead, love,” Paul sniffed. “Let’s just keep to the now, yeah? I’m not thinking that far ahead. In forty years… we’ll be grandparents with grey hair on our dicks.”

The silence between them was pregnant with all of the unspoken yet underscored points their words had touched on and then delicately jumped off: that John loved Cyn, yes, but he would never have married her – or perhaps anyone, ever – had Julian not happened. That even to his closest and dearest friends, Paul did not always reveal everything about himself. That it had been cowardly of Paul not to talk to John before leaving, which also demanded a question: this coming on so suddenly -- was Macca’s move a running toward something, or just running away from everything?

And in either case – understanding John Lennon better than anyone on the planet – why hadn’t Paul stopped to consider how anxious it would make John to know that he was away, far away, with a lover (and a daughter) about whom he’d already demonstrated he was willing to keep secrets?

Yes, it was a full and heady silence between them. Paul could all but hear John’s heart pulsing the words, _“please stay, please stay, please stay.”_

“I can’t stay, love,” he said softly into the phone. “I’m expected now, and I can’t… I mustn’t…”

“You mustn’t what?” John was as soft, but sounding a defiant, challenging note. “You mustn’t what, Paul?”

Paul licked his lips, prepared to say something he knew was necessary, and praying it would help, rather than further hurt. “Baby,” he began, “all our lives together I’ve watched you trying to reconcile the fact of Alf being alive but not in your life. I’ve held you while you’ve cried for the ache of it.”

He could hear John holding his breath, giving away nothing as he listened, and Paul continued, “I’ve tasted it on you, that ache, that loneliness. I’ve kissed that abandoned little boy and held him close. I’ve taken a parent’s place now and now, when you’ve needed it. I’ve even made love to you in ways meant to make you feel claimed, and owned -- fully mine, possessed for love. But I will never be all you need because when your father walked away from you--”

“Paul... stop.”

“I can’t bear it, John, and I can’t stop, please, let me say it.”

“ _Why…_ ” His partner’s question came out as a small peep of terror.

“Because, my love… _my love_ ,” the words felt searing and intense as they left him. “When Alf walked away from you – when he made you _see_ that he knew you were there, but weren’t important enough to be with – it created a hole in you.” Paul could hear John openly weeping, now, and his own tears began to fall for his lover’s sake, for the hard truth it was his awful charge to pronounce. “And, it’s a deep hole, darling, we both know it. One that nothing can ever fill, a hurt Cyn can’t heal and I can’t heal, and even Jules can’t heal it because all we do is remind you of loss, and not gain.”

“It’s not true,” John moaned. “ _You_ fill it, Macca. You always have, from the first day. It’s always been you…”

“Honey, I want that to be true. I hope it’s true--”

“It is…”

“Oh…” Paul was weeping fully on Theodore’s head, now. “My love, I hope… Do you know how much I love you? Do you?”

“Yes…” John was sniffing, his constricted throat barely permitting the word to form.

“Sweetheart. Then please _understand…”_ Paul took a deep breath, hoping he could make his plea without falling apart. “How can I ever ask you to love me, if I do to my own little girl what Alf did to you -- let her know I’m out there, but not needing her? Let her _see_ me not being interested in knowing her? Johnny, you couldn’t! You would start to hate me for it. And I would hate myself, too, because I know it all so well, the wreckage of it! Because I’ve seen what it does to a beautiful heart...”

He couldn’t go on. John was sobbing into the phone, sniffling hard and wet, and Paul was right with him, searching for his own handkerchief and barely able to speak.

“I _have_ to go to her, my love, don’t you see? I cannot break her the way he broke you. If I did… it would break us both.” He blew his nose, and could hear John doing the same. “You know this is true,” he gulped out, finally. “You know it, don’t you?”

Lennon’s strangled sound came through the air. It sounded like an affirmation. For a few moments, all either man could do was sniffle and listen to each other breathe, hear the slowing, finally, of their shudders and sighs.

It was strange, Paul thought, how much shared grief could sound like those intimate moments during lovemaking, the soft sounds that came after all of the moans and shouts. Pain and pleasure can look so much alike, Dawson had told them, that a single photograph can often be misread. _Why does everything good, everything lovely, have such a dark counterpart…how can love sound so much like pain?_

“Johnny?” He finally spoke, his voice still thick with leftover emotion. “Are you alright, love?”

He could hear John swallowing something – hopefully water at this hour, and not scotch. “I … yes, doll, I-- I will be.”

“You will be, or you are?” Paul needed the distinction.

“I am,” Lennon said, sounding a bit more sure of himself. “And I get it. I hate that I get it, but…” There was a beat of silence, and then a resigned sigh. “But I guess it means that I’m growing up a little, aye.”

“Well, don’t get too mature too quickly, on me,” Macca smiled, as though his partner could see. “I love my immature boy, too, you know. I need him.”

“No worries on that head, then. I’ve just pissed all over the bathroom floor. Missed the bowl by a mile.”

Paul’s laugh was low but real. “Well, put your glasses on, son! You don’t want Cyn steppin’ in your piss.”

“She says you have to teach Julian, you know,” John’s gurgle still had a sniffle at the end, but he sounded better. “Says he’ll be sprayin’ up the walls if I try.”

“Well, then you know I’ll be around, love.”

“I know,” John whispered. “I shouldn’t have—I over-reacted again, didn’t I?”

“No, no,” Paul was quick to reassure him. “You were justified. That wasn’t an overreaction. That was a correction. And I needed it.”

“I love you.” John sighed it so simply. _How does he do that?_ Paul wondered. _Does he not feel the cost?_

“And I love you, honey. My HoneyJohn.” Paul was reaching deeply into the past with that endearment, from when they were still teenagers. “You weren’t being fussy,” he said. “And you are worth a fuss.”

“You just [keep saying that](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/45873466), love. Someday I’ll believe it.”

“Believe it now, baby. Don’t wait.”

“So…” Paul could hear John really settling down, and sounding like himself again. “A couple of days, you say? Four days?”

“Three or four, I can’t remember. Whatever puts me in Liddypool in time for New Year’s so my Da can stop nagging at me.”

“And then you’ll be home?”

“And then I’ll be home, love.”

“Alright. Well then…you should go.”

“Thank you, Johnny. I feel better going with this talked out between us.”

“A lot more talked out than I’d planned,” John gave an arch laugh. “Talk about home truths. But you’re right, you must go to her.” 

“You know, John, love, in a way…” Paul mused softly, as though giving voice to a thought not yet fully formed, “In a way I’m doing this for both of us -- for all of us, then. You need to see me _not_ ignoring my baby. I need to show you how much I love you by loving her, parenting her, where you can see it, where you can be a witness. Because it will almost be like i’m doing it for _you_.” He gasped as the idea began to flesh itself out. “Do you remember what I told you, about… about Dawson’s story, and his Neddy? And all that happened to him?”

John’s interrupted blowing his nose with a puzzled-sounding, “Aye?”

“You’re so disgusting, my love. Well, but… you know, when he told me… one thing he said was that he had to _do right_ by me, for his lover’s sake. And I took it almost as though I was the proxy, you know?”

“You mean…” Lennon’s own thoughts were coming together. “Like a stand-in? Like you were the chance to have a do-over?”

“Sort of, but that sounds so glib,” Macca frowned, trying to get it just right. “More like…like what he couldn’t do for Ned, he _had_ to do for me, to sort of… _fix_ it, you know? All that was lacking, or he believed was lacking, in how he’d handled that… _that_ rape, would somehow be made right, for Ned, and for himself, and even for me, if he got it right in this instance. If not in reality then at least, kind of… in _time?_ In time itself? Does that make sense?”

“It sounds like something you bloody Catholics would write up in Latin and then put away in some dusty old book, doesn’t it?” Engaging John’s ever-curious intellect had helped him to collect himself, as though his emotions, filtered through a theoretical exercise, were being given a boost. “And you’re sayin’ then that… Michelle is the proxy for _me?”_

“Maybe both of us are! Maybe Michelle and I are the proxy for you and Alf, yeah? And—and we get the chance to create _now,_ have _now,_ what Alf wouldn’t create then? And I don’t know if that’s Catholic, you bleedin’ tormenter, but maybe it’s true anyway?”

A sudden glimmer of real understanding grabbed at Paul, and he found himself reaching out a hand, as though John were right there, with him. “Johnny…” he whispered, “what if _this_ is what it’s really all about?”

“Whaddya mean, love,” Lennon sounded nearly out of breath with the question, and a little confused. “What _what’s_ all about?”

By then Paul had curled himself fully around Theodore. His eyes were clenched shut, but there was a smile on his face because suddenly _he knew it_. He knew something that was true, and that he hadn’t known before.

“Johnny… what if this is how we save each other, finally? By doing what we can, and what we should, for the sake of all the blighters who can’t? Or won’t? What if that’s what all our suffering, and all our reaching out is for, after all?”

He was remembering it now, that sense of having figured out something important, as though he’d come upon a great secret, and shared it with John, his beloved one, and both of them had felt the hair raise on their arms.

 _“Holy Christ, Macca,”_ John said after a moment, as he lit a cigarette and took a deep pull of smoke into his lungs. “And you’re not even high.” 

“Heh,” Paul chuckled, suddenly feeling the breath come back into his body. “If only Mal were here to write it all down, aye?”

“Truth!” John’s smile seemed to travel through the phone lines. “It sounds like one of your seven levels!”

“I knew I could be deep!”

“Aw, Paulie, darling…” It wasn’t quite a purr, but his partner did lower his voice into an affectionate drawl. “I could never have loved you if you weren’t, all along.”

After that, it had been easier for John to agree, easier for him to actually encourage Paul to go ahead with his plans. Reminding Macca one more time that he should have woken John and talked to him before leaving, he nevertheless gave his blessing on the whole adventure. “You go be daddy, then, for both of us.”

“The French say ‘papa’ I think,” Paul had smiled.

“Papa Paulie,” Lennon mused. “Papa _by Proxy_. If ye have any of those crazy monkeys left, you’ll bring her one, yeah? Tell her it’s from Uncle John?”

“Uncle John,” Paul sighed, touched – as ever -- again at the surprising largeness of his partner’s heart when he was in control of himself. “Or, ‘oncle’, right? _Oui_ , _Oncle Jean_ , I will tell her.”

The sun had fully disappeared and the moon was beginning to show itself from behind a single, dense cloud, like a stripper who knew when to choose her moment. As his car zipped along a nearly-deserted highway, moving more deeply into the rural wine country of the Loire valley, Paul found himself unable to look away from the blueness of the night sky and the brightness of the stars with no city lights to obscure them. He’d not really seen the heavens above him as clearly as this since his scouting days, in the wilds of Wales. “Galaxies and moons, stars and planets…show me where am I going,” he murmured aloud.

“ _Pardon_ , _monsieur_ ,” the driver responded formally. “What is it you ask?”

 _Answers. My life played out in a way I can understand. Love. Every way I need it. That’s what I ask_ , he thought. “I’m sorry,” he answered. “I was thinking aloud. What is your name, then? I apologize for not remembering.”

“I am Pierre-Marie _, monsieur_.”

“How do you do?” Paul’s manners were on auto-pilot. “Are we far from the vineyards, yet?”

“A mere hour, it is but.”

“Aye, thank you. Er, _merci.”_ Noting that his driver was smoking what appeared to be a rather expensive Turkish cigarette, Paul pulled out a smoke of his own, settling back against the leather seats and realizing that for the first time this day, he felt relaxed. Fearful, still – in the back of his mind was the terror of what was before him: reacquaintance with Sophie, an introduction to her mother, who sounded formidable. Possibly an introduction to an auntie and uncle – he’d stopped at a duty-free shop at the London airport and bought a fifty-year-old brandy as a host-gift, hoping that might soothe whatever French savagery might yet reside in the old man’s chest. And then to meet Michelle. _Ma belle. What possible words could go well, after “I am your papa…”_

Yes, the idea was still frightening, but now – having John’s support, and the weight of his mistake greatly lessened for it – he felt ready. _I do this for you, and for me, and for your Oncle Jean, too, little girl_ , he thought, a small smile playing on his lips.

His long conversation with John had stalled his packing and he was still trying to finish when his father called, demanding an estimated time of arrival. He carefully folded the new sweater Jane had given him and slipped it inside and stood there, phone at his ear, not listening well as he wondered whether there was room to shove Theodore (freshly dressed in George’s gift of clothes) into the bag. _He’s pretty squishy_ , Paul considered. _And I am going to be alone at night…_

“Are you listening, Paul? Angela is roasting ducklings and needs an idea. I confess I am shocked to find you still at home.”

“Aye, Da, sorry. I meant to call you sooner, but I’ve been packing. I’m not coming today.”

“What?” His father’s displeasure rang through the coils of the phone line, coming through as a ragged bark. “What do you mean you’re not coming?”

“I mean, I am coming, yeah? Only not today. In fact, I’ve got to hang up, Da, my car’s about to arrive to take me to the airport.”

“Airport, you say? Where the devil are you going, then, Paul?”

Once upon a time, Jim’s tone would have him shaking at the knees, but this time, Macca smiled. “I’m hitting Liverpool on the way back, and I’ll come to Wirral then, yeah? Sorry, though, Da, I’ve getting the last flight out to Paris in a bit.”

“Paris? Did you say Paris?” Jim McCartney seemed to think the phone was distorting the message. “What about Paris?”

“Gotta go, Da,” Paul said as he managed to shut his luggage, teddy bear and monkey and all. “I’m off to see your granddaughter, ain’t I?”

“I— _what?”_ His father blew into the phone as though to clear it. When he came back, he was talking to dead air. “What? Paul? I—I have a granddaughter?”

 _Off to see your granddaughter, Mum. My daughter_. Paul smiled to himself. _I hope she doesn’t like the monkey so well as the doll. I’ll be crushed if she does, and John will never let me live it down._

Sophie had been right, the ride to her family’s vineyard was long and required a knowledge of backroads that Paul would have been loath to try, especially in the dark. Just as he was becoming restless – _these legs need a good stretch_ , he thought – the car slowed down, finally pulling up to a kind of wide private entrance, or driveway, beside which was a horse and carriage, a large, beefy looking older man at the reins. Sophie’s uncle? Paul’s eyes grew round at the sight.

“What’s this?” Paul asked Pierre-Marie, who was conversing in French with the older man as he went round to collect the luggage.

“It is Benoit,” he answered, smiling. “The vineyard dislikes automobiles, _monsieur_ , and so Benoit is kept busy receiving all manner of deliveries.”

“Including people, I guess?” Paul chuckled, approaching the man with a wave. “ _Bonsoir, Benoit_! Hello.”

The man gave him a sour look, and turned his head, looking forward. The chauffeur broke into a laugh as he lifted Macca’s bags into the aged timber wagon. “He cannot answer, _monsieur_. But if you will only come here, to the rear!”

Biting his lip in embarrassment and in no hurry to sit beside the unwelcoming Frenchman, Paul walked to the back of the wagon. He was greeted there with what seemed like an entire bale of soft hay, thrown directly at him with the lightest of giggles and then a remorseful little, “Ah, too much, perhaps?”

Brushing hay and silk from his hair and spitting it from his lips, Paul finally managed to look up, and there sat Sophie, her own dark curls littered with bits of hay, glowing in the moonlight, and her smile wide and bright. “ _Allors_ ,” she laughed up at him. “Will you alight? Join me for a little ride in the hay?”

He bit his lips, this time to stop the ribald laughter her innocent question was begging from him. “Sophie! You look wonderful!”

“And you look, in the moonlight, so young as my memory! _Viens! Monte!”_

 _“Come, mount,”_ he translated in his head. Unable to hold back, this time Paul all but guffawed as he began to climb aboard. “If you know what you are saying, Sophie, then you are a wicked siren who is much changed, since I saw you last.” As he reached the hay, she pulled him fully into her embrace murmuring what sounded to Paul like, _“ma belle, amie,”_ and he immediately hugged her back, but only for an instant before pulling away. Eyes meeting as the wagon began to move, Paul returned her broad smile, even as he reached out to pull stray bits of silk from her rather messy hair. “But no,” he decided. “You are just as you have always been.”

“Only older and fat,” she teased.

“Not a day,” he chuckled. “And not a bit. I, though, am too thin.”

Sophie’s hand gave his tummy a surprisingly rough pat. “We will give you cheese and eggs and cream and good wine,” she said. “You will have to roll back to England, _oui?_ Much more fat and much more happy than you are current.”

Paul had forgotten how quickly Sophie could read others, and how perceptive she was. He decided, in his way, to pretend she hadn’t just sized him up, pinpointing so precisely where he was lacking. Settling his face into an expression of polite blankness, he looked around, straining to see the vineyard. Away from the road, darkness enveloped them, the only light visible coming from the bright night sky, the only sound from the crisp _clop clop_ of the horse. “It’s so peaceful,” he said approvingly. “But Sophie, where is your house? And why do you not like cars on this path?”

“Only a little way,” she assured him. “And we are, so you say, amenable, yes? With cars? But a wagon is more charming, no? And besides, in this way, we give Benoit a duty, and a purpose. To show him his value, even in his old age.”

Surprised at her bold way of speaking, Macca frowned. “Is he deaf? Er, does he not hear you?”

“But no,” Sophie smiled. “If he hears, he does not care. Why would you think so?”

“I just wondered,” he gulped, feeling clumsy. “The driver said he could not answer my greeting, and then he looked away from me, as though in disgust. Bit scary, he is?”

“ _Raiment?_ You think? Ah, no, Paul, he is lovely.”

“Well, perhaps I will try again, when we get down. Shake his hand, aye? Should I tip him? I’ve not changed my money yet.”

“No, but Benoit is the most gentlest of creatures, _mon_ _chéri_. And even in England, I think, you do not shake hands with a horse?”

He watched an amused-looking Sophie pick up a long piece of hay, slipping it between her upturned lips, and Paul had to smile, too.

“Benoit is the horse,” he guessed.

“ _Oui,_ ” she grinned sweetly. “He is so old, but we love him.”

“You set me up,” Paul said warmly, leaning back against the hold and shaking a finger at her. “You knew I meant the old man.”

“No!” Sophie laughed out loud, quite enjoying Paul’s petite pique. “But _oui_ , Claude is a…” She struggled for the word. “ _Grincheux_? Of a temper?”

“Grouchy?”

“ _Oui!”_ She agreed, laughing. “I am so little using my English now, you see I am rusted. You will help!”

“Do you speak English to Michelle?” He couldn’t help asking. _What if I can’t speak to her, and seem stupid to her_ , had been a genuine concern of his over the past few hours.

“ _Oui_ , English and also German, which I am more fluent, of course. But I showed her all of your words, here!” With that Sophie extended her hand with a flourish, lifting the heavy sweater she was wearing from her wrist. “It is so very beautiful, Paul. _Magnifique! Merci, beaucoup!_ ”

He was thrilled to see her wearing his gift, which fit her perfectly, and suited the girl so well, being so full of light, just like her. “I am so glad you like it, Sophie.”

“You should not have, though, but there was no need!”

“On that you’re wrong,” Paul disagreed. “I plan to arrange a trust for Marie-Michelle, and I owe you many more fine things, I think, for leaving you to raise our daughter alone.”

“It was a decision all mine, _non?_ And so, you owe me nothing, my friend.” Bossy Sophie was fully in attendance. “Still,” her tone and whole facial expression softened as she moved the bracelet around her wrist. “I am glad of this, dear Paul. I will treasure it, always!”

Macca was struck to hear Sophie so perfectly echo Jane’s words, spoken just two nights ago, about her own bracelet. _Oh shit, Jane! I forgot to ring her that I was going away!_

He shook his head, unsure whether he was experiencing a moment of _de je vu_ or was simply a terrible man with too many women on his hands for whom to answer. But he said no more, for Benoit was slowing and Claude was speaking to the horse gruffly. He got up on his knees looking ahead as they approached what some would describe as an extensive villa – he, himself would call it a mansion – came into view brightly, with Christmas lights on the outside and seemingly every window lit from within.

“Sophie,” he frowned down at her and sounding almost annoyed. “I thought you said you lived in a cottage – you shared a cottage with your auntie and uncle.”

Sophie, also rising to her knees gave him a smile that was so saucy he blinked and was momentarily scandalized. “ _Oui_ , I told you, my English is a rust, no? Cottage? _Chalet?_ ”

Paul brought his arms across his chest. “I am quite sure, my girl, that you are perfectly aware of the word ‘ _manoir_ ’. Hell, my French is a bust and even I know the word!”

With a dainty shrug, Sophie dismissed his umbrage. “There are bigger houses.”

“Aye. They’re called _palaces_ …” he grumbled, swaying as the wagon halted before the glowing manse. Sophie immediately jumped down and he followed, moving to pull at his luggage until she stopped him, her hand on his own.

“Claude will see these safely to the little house we have prepared for you.”

“Oh, yes. The _little house_ ,” Paul raised an eyebrow. “Shall I get lost in it, this little house? Does it have a ballroom and a lift?”

Sophie threw her head back in delight. “But no, it is small, truly, and so cosy, as I know you like, and the bags will be at your door, so your privacy is most assured.”

She began to brush straw and silk from his woolen jacket, front to back, and the wagon took off just as Paul remembered something. “But Sophie! My gifts are in those bags!”

“What, more gifts? There is no need!”

“Well but, I _have_ them. Brandy and shawls and… and gifts for the baby.”

Sophie stopped brushing him in the back and came around to stand before him smoothing his lapels. “You are so tension,” she murmured, softly. “No longer the young man with the so-bright eyes, but older, sadder.” She took both of his hands in hers and gave them a squeeze. “It is good that you are here,” she said with surprising firmness. “Tomorrow is soon enough that you may play _Père Noël_ _, oui?_ And the bébé it must be spoken, is terribly spoiled, also, _oui?_ She needs no more gift than the great treasure that is her papa.” Sophie’s eyes were shining with real happiness as she touched his cheek, brushing away a last bit of silk before meeting his gaze. “And you are now here, Paul. And her joy will be complete.”

Reaching out, Paul regained one of her hands, kissing it and letting loose with a huge sigh. “I hope you are right.” He sounded almost desperate.

“But I am!”

“Then why am I so scared,” he begged her, a naked vulnerability showing in the trembling of his voice.

“I do not know, _mon_ _chéri_ , but I do not accept you are so fearful, even now, and nor here.” She raised her hand to him again, turning over the bracelet to show the five-word inscription: _"[Damn me for a coward"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/57433279),_ and the little gold tag on the clasp decorated with an IJ – " _Irish Jackrabbit."_

“You are no coward, Paul, and also have never been. Only perhaps, a young man with a fate so…so…” she turned her head, eyes narrowed as she searched for the word. “ _Du singulier_ … _unique?”_

“Singular?” Paul guessed.

“ _Oui!_ And what is _singulier_ so very much takes more time to… to tend until it is up so beautiful and so… _intemporal_ —timeless. But then so easy to mark, erm… to _injure_.” Sophie noted, and chose to ignore the minute flinch she felt from Paul as she touched him.

“You will love her,” she said softly, but with certainly. “And you cannot know it, but already, she loves you, I promise.”

With a last brush to his coat, Sophie looked up at him with a wide, encouraging smile and took his hand. “ _Allors_ , you are ready, now?”

Macca huffed out a breath, then another, finally having a sense of what John had gone through before hitting the stage at every huge American venue, just months earlier. He was holding on to Sophie’s hand for dear life. “I feel like I am about to face the toughest audience of my life.” 

“ _Mais oui_ , yes, _ma mère_ is here. But never feel bad. She applauds no one.”


	41. Papa Paul McCartney is in the House!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, having gone to France on the most sudden of impulses, Paul McCartney meets his little daughter. And somehow, without even thinking about it, he can sing again.  
> But the past month of his life, and John's tears the day before, are weighing on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this chapter took so long. I think I was afraid to write it, afraid of Michelle, a little bit. But she is just a little girl. Paul wrenches my heart, nevertheless. I hope you like it.

**December 26, 1965, In a vineyard in the Loire Valley, France**

****

This was it.

_The moment._

His heart was beating so fast – so much harder than when he’d dashed to the stage at Shea. How could meeting a little girl feel so much more monumental than bathing in the adoration of nearly 57,000 screaming fans?

And yet, it did feel different. He knew what to expect from screaming fans. He had no idea what to expect of the night before him, and that truth was nearly strangling him of breath. He could feel his palms growing moist with sweat from his hopped-up nerves and would have withdrawn himself from Sophie’s grip out of sheer embarrassment if he could.

But he couldn’t. His body seemed to be betraying him at every turn. _My hands don’t normally go clammy like this_ , he wanted to explain, but his throat felt suddenly too dry for speech. _I’ve sung before royalty, you know. I’ve spun and screamed before hundreds of thousands – before 70 million on American telly, and never felt so…_

_What if she hates me?_

There it was. Finally, he’d reached it -- touched the source of his fear, the nagging, persistent worry: _What if she despises me for not being here sooner -- sees me and runs away from this sad stranger?_

He couldn’t manage any of these words, couldn’t articulate his anxieties to Sophie. It felt too personal, too secret – as if to share his thoughts might make him even more vulnerable than he’d already been this past month.

For a mad moment, he wished he had Theodore at hand – something to hug that he could not disappoint -- and that surprising thought made him shake his head within Sophie’s sight. In that accepting way she had, the young woman asked no questions, merely grasping Paul’s hand more tightly and smiling up at him as she opened the door to reveal…

_Nothing._

Well, not nothing. They stepped into a high, broad foyer bright with evergreen boughs and fairy lights strung all about. The area was bracing, with a clean scent of fresh pine, sap and bayberry – the smells of Christmas, warm and homey in this airy, open space. But they were alone. No one was about. No scowling _Ma Mère, as he’d already begun to think of her, no_ bitter uncle with gleaming sword, set to run him through. No auntie. It was only him and Sophie.

“Where…” He licked his lips. “Where…”

“Ah, they are in the parlor, and we will hear them soon,” Sophie smiled again. “But we will first come this way.”

They strode straight ahead, past the vast entrance into a broad passage of corridors. “Sophie, where are we going, if not to meet up with--”

“This is the great room.” She ignored his question, instead pointing out an enormous room with one entire wall full of windows but sparse furnishings. “In past times it was used for celebrations and even weddings and funerals, but now it is rare to use. So cold, is it not?”

“It looks very beautiful, actually,” Paul felt compelled to answer, though still confused. “The view must be stunning, but where are we going, Sophie?”

“Why to the kitchen, do you not scent how inviting?”

“I wasn’t thinking to stay for supper, you know,” he answered stupidly, suddenly hoping he would not have to eat with a roomful of strangers. “Not looking to intrude.” Even as he said it, though, his stomach roared to life, giving a loud rumble as the first wafting fragrances of baking bread and rosemary hit him. In the excitement of his last-minute plans, he realized, he’d forgotten to eat anything -- and hadn’t trusted his always chancy stomach during the flight. “Sorry,” he blushed as a second, louder growl announced his hunger.

Sophie only chuckled. “You must of course be comfortable and do precisely as you wish. I have already brought a little meal down to the cabin for you – only fruit and cheeses and our good bread which you will enjoy, I know. But I thought before anything you must have a little water or some tea if you like.”

With that, Sophie opened a door and they stepped down a landing and into an impressively busy kitchen, where Paul’s hunger was amped up tenfold by a full-on assault of luscious aromas – a bouquet of agreeable, enticing smells. A steaming lobster bisque was being ladled into a heavy tureen, a loin of pork, just pulled from the oven and still sizzling, was resting nearby; potatoes and numerous vegetables were in various states of being plated. He observed it all in dumb silence, his mouth hanging open until he felt Sophie place a glass of water into his hand, which he gratefully drank in one go. The girl had been right, as usual. He’d needed it.

“Sophie,” he stammered. “You have a chef?” He looked around, finally putting it together. The “little vineyard” as she had called it, had seemed to go on for miles. The “little cottage” she’d described was in fact a mansion. There was a cook. Servants. He wondered if the “little cabin” she had promised him would require an elevator.

No wonder she had never asked a dime of him for Michelle.

“Sophie, you never told me you were rich.”

“But, no,” she frowned at him in amusement. “The family… there is the business, of course, but for me it is a roof and food in exchange for my labor, yes? I am only a worker.” She’d dipped a fluffy, yeasty-looking dinner role into the dregs of the bisque pot and handed it to Paul as he gave her a skeptical look.

“I guess it’s all a matter of perspective, then, yeah,” he supposed as put down the glass and accepted the roll. His eyes closed in real appreciation at the first bite. “Christ, that’s delicious,” he murmured.

“Then perhaps you should stay and eat with us, for you look like you could use a full meal, _oui?”_

Paul’s stomach answered for him, sending up a rumble that sounded like rusted gears and pulleys, suddenly sprung into action after long disuse. Sophie’s laugh assuaged his embarrassment and a moment later she was speaking in rapid French to a nearby woman, who quickly collected plates and cutlery. Paul assumed another place setting had been ordered. “Why do I feel, like this bread-and-water-amid-the-feast theatrical was always meant to convince me to stay for dinner?”

He was teasing, a small smile playing at his lips, even as he gave Sophie a knowing look.

“But, no,” Sophie laughed, taking his hand and leading him out through a different door. “You needed the drink, and Remy’s food is so warm and…what is the word, wholesome, yes? Like pure food should be? It is no surprise that a hungry man might be enticed.”

“Still,” he allowed, “I’m going to be careful around you, Sophie. You have this way of getting what you want.”

“Ah, I want so few things, in real,” she shook her head. “But I admit I hoped you would tonight share our meal. Do you in truth wish not to?”

Paul sighed tremendously and felt his palm begin to moisten again. “It’s not that I mind so much,” he admitted. “I’m just…” He stopped, turning to look at Sophie, whose eyes were wide with… wonder? Concern? “I meant what I said outside; I’m so terrified, lass. And I’m ashamed of it.”

“But why are you so, so, scared, Paul? _Ma Mère_ is a mere spider to be flicked away.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle at the girl’s dismissal of her own mother. “Some spiders bite, you know. But it’s not her…it’s Michelle, if she runs away or doesn’t like me.”

Sophie continued dismissive, making a little puff of noise that came out of her like a controlled explosion. “Bah, the child has never run away from anything. She is called ‘The Little Captain’ by the staff because always she is a bold thing. If you must have fear,” her tone softened, as her smile widened and she continued leading him into yet another corridor, “be afraid that she will order you about until your head spins all around and her desire is met.”

“So… like her mother, then,” Paul wondered, his lips once more tugging upwards against his own anxiety, “except less subtle about it.”

“Subtly comes with art,” she shrugged, “but I think in real, she is more like her father. But you will see.” She turned a doorknob that opened into yet another room. “Here is our family parlor, and everyone!”

‘Everyone’ currently seemed to mean a rather large and imperious-looking tuxedo cat lounging before a blazing fire. “Hello, puss!” Paul, grateful for the lack of faces, hurried over, kneeling and placing his hand before the feline’s face for a moment before beginning to scratch behind its ears. He looked around at the lived-in looking room full of chintz-covered chairs and sofas, plants and family photos as well as an enormous tree in one corner, loaded with lights and worn-looking ornaments. “This is very different,” he observed, sounding relieved, “much cozier than the rest of the house. And a room is always better with a cat or a dog in it, I think.”

“That is Edward,” Sophie pronounced watching Paul visibly relax as he stroked the cat, who was already showing his belly to a new friend. Her eyebrows went up at that. “Ah, he likes you. But be on guard. He is a sneak and an assassin. You turn your head and without warning he will strike!”

“You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, Ed,” Paul asked, bringing his face close to the cat’s and enjoying his engine-like purr. “Tell Sophie! To lay a Beatle low on French soil, after making friends? But no! It is unthinkable!”

“Ah, and here is Simone, my uncle’s wife,” Sophie pronounced with pleasure. Paul leapt to his feet, feeling frozen to his spot as a very tall brunette said something in French to Sophie and then directly approached Paul with a cigarette, indicating her need for a light, which he quickly offered. As she bent to it, Aunt Simone was clearly giving him the once-over, and she tossed her hair alluringly as she blew a cloud. “But my dear, he is most beautiful. Not at all like I have heard.”

Sophie gave one of those frustrated low growls he remembered from Hamburg. “I told you, _tante_ , that you were misinformed, and now you are also rude.”

Simone shrugged and smiled up at Paul. “Am I rude, dear? I have read gossip that you are less ‘andsome in real life, but I see it is not so…”

Paul, more accustomed to older women flirting with him than he ever wanted to be, merely crinkled his eyes at her. “Thank you,” he murmured. “You sound like my own aunties, you know, always readin’ the cheap papers.”

“Oh! So fresh he is!” Sophie’s aunt threw back her head in appreciative laughter. “I am put in my place, and with sauce!” She turned to say something to her niece only to be stopped by the arrival of Ma Mère and her four year-old granddaughter, Marie-Michelle.

At the sight of them, Paul recognized his opponent for what she was, and his anxiety fled. Before him was a well-dressed x-ray of a woman whose head was raised to the precise degree of hautiness that always proclaimed ‘old money’. Dressed with elegance, diamond-encircled pearls dropped from her ears in a platinum setting that suggested family heirlooms. Around her neck she wore a very long, rather old-fashioned, string of pearls clearly meant to emphasize wealth of long-standing. The tightly pursed lips were familiar to him, signaling a fixation on social standing that he immediately equated with John’s Aunt Mimi calling him “Irish rabble.” He smiled. His two-second size up told him that Sophie was correct, and that her mother could be easily handled by offering good manners but little actual notice.

The dark-haired girl in her arms, Paul had to admit, looked more formidable. Like her grandmother, she was dressed in formality, wearing a blue and white polka dot confection of a dress. On her wrist, he noted, was the gold bangle he had sent among her Christmas gifts. _Sophie_ , he thought. _Doesn’t miss a thing_.

The girl had shoved her head into the loop of her grandmother’s pearls and a handful of them were now in her mouth. From her other arm, slung around the woman’s neck, dangled her new china doll which, Paul could see, already looked a bit worse for wear.

His smile only widened at the sight – he’d told John Dawson the doll was hers to bust up, if she wanted, and he was rather delighted to see she was already meeting expectations. It meant she was playing with his gift. The girl seemed mesmerized by the sight of him, though, and as Paul advanced, her familiar-looking brown and amber eyes grew wide as platters. 

“And so, finally, you appear,” Ma Mère acknowledged while barely opening her mouth. “One would expect a jackrabbit to be prompt, no?” She seemed to ask the question of the air, avoiding his eyes entirely.

“You are perfectly right, Madame,” Paul nodded at her. “I am, perhaps, too much a _white_ rabbit, however, and unforgivably late. I should have made this journey long ago.”

With that he completely dismissed Ma Mère, turning toward Michelle, who was now sucking rapidly on her grandmother’s necklace. He couldn’t stop the grin overtaking his face at the sight. “Little girl,” he spoke to her in a light, friendly voice, “you are so pretty, may I guess your name?”

Michelle looked over his shoulder at Sophie, who simply smiled at her. She blinked, sucking harder on the pearls, and nodded at Paul.

“Now, let me think,” Paul said, crossing his arms and bringing his thumb up to his teeth, pretending to muse. “A girl with hair all curly and big eyes. Is your name Therese?”

Michelle shook her head ‘no’, still staring.

“Ah, no. Not Therese, then. Are you… is your name Elise?”

Watching him closely, the girl’s eyes seemed to dance as she guessed his purpose. She shook her head in a negative once more, but her lips began to turn up around the pearls.

“Hmm, not Elise.” Paul pulled his brows down into a frown and then snapped his fingers as though he knew the answer. “You are Bibiana,” he said, pointing at her.

Michelle presented him with a scowl so deep he raised his hands in defense and laughed, delighted by her spirited disapproval.

“Alright, alright, then, no Bibiana! Well, now I must be careful. Let me think…what is the most beautiful of all names? Ah, could it be, _ma petite_ … are you Marie-Michelle?”

“ _Oui!_ ” The high little voice sounded equally delighted with Paul, her teeth clicking against the necklace as she confessed. “I am Michelle!”

Gently, so gently, so as not to startle her – or Ma Mère – Paul drew his daughter’s hand away from her mouth, the pearls trailing a light saliva as she released them. Still smiling, his voice went low and close. “If you are the beautiful Michelle, then I am your daddy, your papa, darling. Will you come to me?”

At the word “Papa” the china doll had fallen from her hand, landing on the thick carpeting below, and his question had not been fully asked before the little girl was launching herself into Paul’s arms with a shouted, “ _Papa!_ ” followed by an excited stream of French he grasped not at all.

He didn’t need to. As she babbled into his ear and also toward her mother, he understood. He felt Michelle wrap her arms around his neck, squeezing tight, and gave a corresponding squeeze, hugging the child to himself with a noise that sounded just a little bit like a sob to his own ears. _Don’t cry, don’t cry! Be happy! Look at your beautiful little girl. Oh, God. Oh, Mum…my daughter. My little girl!_

Paul McCartney felt as lit as a roman candle – utterly ready to explode – as though a blaze of fireworks were going off in the general vicinity of his heart, which seemed ready to pound right through his chest, and he was breathless – not dizzy but definitely lightheaded. It was how he felt during an anxiety attack, he knew, but this was anything but. The flurry of sensation contained within it such an undercurrent or pure elation that he felt fearless, transcendent – he felt like he could take on the world, bare-fisted, and come home a champion. _Love. This is actual love,_ he marveled. _So brand new, but so real,_ and another burst of something alive and powerfully energetic went spiraling through his heart, like a St. Catherine’s Wheel. _My Michelle_.

One trembling hand went to her head and he brought it close to his shoulder, nuzzling her and daring to kiss her soft, lovely hair. “Yes, I am your papa,” he murmured into her ear. “And you are my pearl.”

Too excited to be so enclosed, Michelle pulled back, sitting comfortably in his arms until man and child were making full-on eye contact. They merely smiled at each other in unusual content, as though no one else existed in the room, until the little girl’s face turned quizzical. “What is it, _ma petite_ ,” Paul asked, his voice still hushed.

Her dark little brows lowering into a frown, Michelle reached out, settling both of her tiny hands on Paul’s face, and then clumsily stroking at his five o’clock shadow. “Mama,” she called out to Sophie, prattling off a line with some urgency, her gaze never leaving his. “ _Mama,_ _Papa a la peau rugueuse_ ,” she repeated.

Typically composed, Sophie had already drawn near to the two of them, the only clue to her feelings showing in the fingers brought across her lips, as though the scene before her was too precious to be borne. “ _Oui_ , Michelle,” she nodded, translating for Paul. _“Papa is rough.”_

“Oh, aye,” Paul smiled broadly, jostling the girl a little in his arms until she giggled, and then resting one of his hands upon her own. “Yes, baby, you are right. Papa is very, very rough.” _Little girl,_ he thought _, you have no idea._

For the second time, unable to resist, he drew her against him in an all-encompassing hug, closing his eyes and basking in the moment. It was a thrilling thing for Paul to feel his daughter immediately rest her head against him, her arms once more around his neck, as though they had always belonged there. 

_So, this is fatherhood_ , he thought. _It feels so natural. Why was I afraid?_ Mimi Smith’s words came to him, suddenly, [“you’re a natural father, you know.”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/65765080)

He had to give it to the old lady who, for once, had read him well. Nothing had ever felt more right to Paul than holding his daughter in his arms – _like the day I met John, but on steroids_. 

Recalling John at this moment jarred him just a little and he opened his eyes, seeing Sophie there, watching the two of them.

“I told you,” she said in a low whisper, one finger still over her lips as though she dared to speak too loudly. “I told you already she loved you.” Paul reached out a hand and she took it. “Thank you, Sophie,” he said, holding her firmly in his grasp. “Thank you for…for…”

“I did nothing.”

“You did everything…”

His words were interrupted as his stomach let out a profound roar, audible throughout the room. As Simone and Sophie suppressed their chuckles and Ma Mère bristled, Michelle raised her head from Paul’s shoulder and gave him a knowing look. “ _Papa a faim_ ,” she announced to Sophie, her eyes still trained on her father. “Of a hunger,” she seemed to be explaining to him. “Papa must now eat.”

“You weren’t kidding about her being a little boss, were you,” he murmured to Sophie as the family gathered in the dining room. Suddenly appearing at the sound of the dinner bell were Sophie’s uncle Maxime, and her two teenage cousins, Bernadette and Madeline, whose eyes became round as saucers upon being introduced to Paul McCartney in the flesh. They fell back in completely intimidated silence as he gave them a friendly greeting, and Michelle – all innocence in his arms -- brought them scandalously up to date. “Papa is here,” she told them, beaming. “Not radio only!”

“And that news remains in this house and travels nowhere else,” a stern-faced Maxime warned them.

“Yes, please,” Sophie added, looking at them in fond understanding. She added quietly, an in her native tongue, “for my sake, and the child’s, if you will. And for her father’s.”

Blushing at the revelation (and what it meant of their dear, demure, so straitlaced cousin, who often chided them on their posture and insisted they join her each week for Mass), the girls nevertheless nodded and then shot deeply meaningful looks at each other as they took their seats and proceeded to stare cow-eyed at the dark-haired superstar in their midst.

Uncle Maxime seemed kinder than Paul had any right to expect, although he beheld Sophie at his side – and the child clinging so happily to him – and then shot out a grave look that Macca (quite correctly) interpreted as meaning, _if you hurt my family I will have Benoit bite off both your balls._ Paul received the message loud and clear, and gave a small nod of understanding, which seemed sufficient, for the moment.

As Sophie showed Paul his seat, Michelle declared her intention to help her father eat by remaining in his lap, a notion her mama gently but firmly denied, permitting the girl to sit to the left of him, which she did happily, kneeling on her chair and occasionally patting Paul’s arm with her little hand, as though to make sure he was real, and really by her side, and not some vanishing illusion. _Papa is here!_ Each time she did it, Paul found the little action to be almost heartbreakingly poignant. _Has she so missed having a father in her life? Even so young? I have so much to make up for…_

Once again -- he could not have stopped the intrusion if he tried -- John came into his head again, the beautiful little boy left behind by selfish parents. Had he ever shared a single meal with his father? Is that why this meal seemed suddenly to matter so much? [_"You need to see me not ignoring my_ _baby_..."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/66241999) That's what he'd said to his partner only the day before. _"It will almost be like I'm doing it for you.”_

For John. For Michelle. _For myself._ He admitted it to himself, now. He'd wanted -- no, _needed_ \-- to meet Michelle. Had wanted and needed this moment, in truth, for years.   
  
Still, between the rising sense of guilt that came with understanding what his absence had meant for her, these unbidden thoughts of John, and now his little daughter's touches (which frequently interrupted him in the act of raising a soup spoon to his mouth, or cutting his meat) Paul couldn't eat much. Instead, he turned his attention to his daughter’s plate, upon which the roasted potatoes had gone unattended. “Do you not like potatoes,” he asked her.

“ _Oui,_ ” she looked up at him with adoring eyes. “Only but soft.”

“It is the fault of her mother,” Simone, smiled wickedly, as though she were pushing a sensitive button to stir trouble. “She will not serve them as the baby likes, except as it suits the menu.”

Sophie, sitting on the other side of Michelle, admitted it. “I will not permit her to control the table,” she blushed. “But the child will not eat them unless they are smashed.”

“Well, there’s my girl,” he smiled down at Michelle and noted the offended huff coming from the general direction of Ma Mère. “There is nothing like a good mash, it's true. But what if you and I share a bite, my pearl?” Picking up a small potato from her plate, he bit into it while holding her gaze, and made a sincere moan of appreciation. “Delicious. Now, Papa says Michelle must eat.”

The little girl hesitated only slightly before nearly biting his fingers as she played along, chomping down on the potato with a growl and then imitating his groan of pleasure to the amusement of all but her grandmother. “Well done, you,” he grinned widely, spearing a second potato with her fork and placing it in her hand. On impulse, he tapped his cheek and leaned in to her. Entirely on his wavelength, his daughter brought her lips to his cheek, kissing him swiftly but then pursing her lips with a frown and giving a slight shudder.

“Papa is _rough_ ,” she announced once more, and this time with feeling, and the entire table burst into laughter.

Having survived supper, and even managed to avail himself of a delightful milk-drenched cake his daughter insisted on feeding him, Paul begged off from coffee. Pleading fatigue, he asked Sophie to direct him toward “that ‘little house’ you talked about, which I assume is an actual castle?”

Now, he was out in the night air -- Sophie beside him, and a well-bundled Michelle in his arms, as they walked toward it. The sky was still clear and bright and Paul couldn’t help marveling once again at the sapphire blueness of it all. “We don’t see the stars in London,” he noted with regret. “Nor in Liverpool.”

“Nor Hamburg,” Sophie agreed, her shoulder shoving against his arm in a good-natured tease.

“My three favorite cities,” he chuckled, “for very different reasons.”

The two of them found a little pocket of peace as they walked, chatting as easily and naturally as they always had over nothing especially important. Paul had things he needed to say to Sophie – mostly words of intense gratitude – but he knew they could be left to the next day or even the next, _as long as I say them before I leave_. Meanwhile his little daughter was blithely singing a familiar tune, conducting herself with her left arm, which she swung out in time, toward the night sky. _“‘Sont les mots qui vont tres bein ensemble’_. Papa sing?”

“ _Tres bien ensemble_ ,” he joined in quickly, his smile huge as he crooned. _“I need to, I need to, I need to, I need to make you see, what you mean to me…”_ He paused, suddenly realizing that his little girl had, all on instinct, hummed part of the harmonized ‘ _oooo_ ’ that his mates had sung behind him on the verse. “Very good, my love,” he encouraged, “ _tres bien!_ Sophie, she is musical,” he said excitedly.

“ _Oui_ , she is,” Sophie agreed. “But also she has made me play the record many millions of times. She knows it well!”

“Don’t downplay it, please,” he begged lightly. “I’m thrilled to know it. And,” he slowed his step as they approached what he would describe as a snug-looking little cottage, “I’m thrilled to find that for once you have described something appropriately, and there is not full moat or turrets before my eyes.”

The cabin was, precisely as Sophie had said, rustic and small. His bags were waiting just inside the door, as promised, and the place was warm and cozy thanks to a cast iron stove that had been fired up and, upon Sophie’s efficient inspection, was still showing embers before she shoved a few more small logs within. “There is more wood just to the side of the house,” she said, slipping off her jacket and Michelle’s before going into a tiny kitchen at the far end of the room. Flipping on a light she reached into a small refrigerator and produced a plate containing grapes, orange slices and several small blocks of cheese. “You may want to pick at it,” she counselled, “I know the little one did not let you eat so well.”

“The dinner was delicious, Sophie,” Paul started. “And I did manage most of the soup.”

At the sight of Paul in the kitchen, Michelle clambered to the table, opening a small bag of fluffy rolls and, chatting incessantly in French, broke one apart, offering half to her father and taking the other for herself as she wandered about the familiar house.

“But still,” Sophie smiled as she watched their daughter, “‘Papa must eat’. Come, you may bring your things, here.” She guided him to a bedroom just off the kitchen, where a full and comfortable-looking brass bed beckoned invitingly. A bathroom just across the hall featured an old claw-footed bathtub so large a person could happily submerge one’s whole body, and Paul meant to do so at first chance. _Right after I have another roll. And maybe some grapes._

“Papa, come,” Michelle was back, tugging at his hand, and saying something about a tree. She led him toward a small Christmas tree which had been set upon a table in a corner nearest the front window, Paul realized she wanted him to plug in the lights, something she was apparently – and wisely, he thought – not permitted to do. As the tree came alive, the little girl clapped her hands, nodding with approval and praising her father lavishly (if indecipherably) and then beckoning him near.

“ _Est-ce que tu vois, Papa!”_ She was intently looking at a little creche where small figurines were arranged amid an ersatz stable, including animals. Michell was righting a sheep that had fallen over. “The little _bebe_ has come! And now there is a family!”

Taking a knee beside her, Paul remembered [talking about the scene in Bethlehem with Fr. Sean](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/65157673), just two nights earlier -- about the probable stench and noise of the place – and he moved another figure, a shepherd, nearer the stable. “And who came beside the baby, darling? Besides the mama and the daddy, and the shepherds and kings?”

From the kitchen, Sophie watched, opening a bottle of wine she meant to leave ready for Paul. Her hand went to her chest. For a moment, just a moment, the always-in-control young woman felt like she might cry. The vision before her was too beautiful; her old, dear friend -- her lover, whose once-bright eyes had gone so sad -- speaking with such gentle attention to the child they had made together. Her daughter, all wide-eyed and entranced, hanging on to his every word. Sophie’s heart felt too full – all but ready to burst -- and she closed her eyes against a surge of emotion, even as she willed herself to remember this scene, and this feeling, before it slipped away. After a minute, she pulled herself out of it and, returning to the business at hand, found the wine goblets.

“And what did the angels do, baby,” Paul was asking as Sophie made her way to the pair, slipping a wine glass into his hand and sipping from her own.

“What are you two so busy about,” she teased. “Mama must share in the conversation or she will feel ignored.”

“Marie-Michelle was just telling me about the angels that came with the baby,” Paul explained. He was nearly glowing as he looked back down at their daughter. “I was asking her what the angels did then, what words they sang.”

“ _Raiment?_ But they sang in Latin, no? _Gloria in excelsis deo?”_

Paul frowned in amusement. “Did they? Never thought about it but it’s a silly thing, isn’t it? Angels singin’ in Latin over a Jewish baby.” Without thinking twice he very naturally – with none of the hesitation he’d known in London -- began to sing the phrase, in the descending notes of an ancient French carol, only to find Michelle climbing into his lap. “But no, Papa, no so loud, the angels.”

“Were they not,” he asked, setting his wine glass aside and out of her reach. “But they were _herald_ angels you know.”

She whispered something to him that he could not catch. “But the baby is sleeping,” Sophie translated. “So, the angels must sing quietly.”

“Oh!” Paul considered. “Quite right. She reasons well, doesn’t she?”

“All too well, as you will learn.”

“Well then, _ma petite_ ,” he urged Michelle on, “what do the angels sing when the baby is asleep.”

“ _Oui_ , sing it, darling,” Sophie agreed. She kept her eyes on Paul, watching for his reaction as the little girl broke into an unexpected song, singing out in a sweet, piping voice.

_Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht_

_Alles schlaft; einsam wacht_

Paul gasped, utterly shocked to hear the carol in its original form. He looked at Sophie, who smiled back. “Astrid taught it to me,” she explained, “and I have taught it to Michelle.”

_Nur das traute hochheilige Paar_

Paul closed his eyes, finding himself transported back to Hamburg – to the band’s 1962 residency, when they played through the Christmas season. He and his bandmates would stumble out into the streets between sets or after a long night’s performing only to find people – women mostly, prostitutes, mostly, but sometimes their male counterparts as well – gathered around makeshift fires and singing Christmas songs together as they warmed themselves. The _Stille Nacht_ had always haunted him – the serene and gentle song, and how it captured a milieu of unbridled sweetness while being so much at odds with the rough realities of their lives. Shivering as the cold river's wind met the sweat of his neck, Paul would nevertheless stand transfixed as the Germans sang it, verse after verse, in harmonies they had likely learned at the knee of some parent or grandparent, when perhaps life had still offered them a measure of sweetness, or the promise of it, yet unserved.

And now here was his tiny daughter, so different from those broken ones, singing the same words, not yet knowing what they meant, or how the heart could hunger for year upon year for a single moment of peace as captured within those phrases and that melody -- so like a lullabye. As though its infant subject could rock the world in a holy consolation, even from his grubby manger.

_Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,_

Hauling the little girl into his lap, Paul joined her song.

_Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!_

_Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!_

“Do you know the rest,” he started to ask but Michelle had already launched into the second verse, and so – casting wide eyes at Sophie – he joined in again. After a moment, Sophie did too. The new little family, Irish and French, sang together in German as they sat around the Christmas tree in a tiny rustic cabin.

_Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!_

_Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!_

As the last verse ended, Paul felt his breath shudder and had to turn his head away. He was too full. The day had been so unnerving and then so lovely, and now here he was doing what only twenty-four hours ago had not even been an idea in his head. He felt his flesh shiver and couldn’t restrain a confused tear at the wonder of it all. A moment later, two little hands turned his face back and Michelle was frowning at him in concern, her fingers brushing at the water on his cheek. “Papa?”

“Papa is fine,” he gulped, taking her hand and kissing it before drawing it in an embrace full of regret. _I’ve missed too much. And she’s too little to be wiping back my tears…Christ, what a wreck I am._

“Papa is very tired, little one,” he heard Sophie say as she collected their wraps. “He has had a long day.”

“Papa, it is true?” Michelle asked.

“Yes, it is true,” Paul agreed, his voice cracking a little as he looked down into those big eyes, so like his own, but untouched by darkness. “Papa is very tired, baby," he explained, one callused fingertip gently tracing over her worried brow. "He has traveled too long on a road too hard, and he is so, so tired.”

The little girl’s eyebrows pulled way down. “Papa must sleep, now” she ordered.

“ _Oui_ , baby,” he managed a grin, kissing her forehead and then rising to help her into her warm coat. “Papa will sleep.”

“Should I walk you back home,” he asked Sophie, feeling strange about hanging back as they left.

“You are silly,” she chuckled. “It is unnecessary. Also, you just admitted you must sleep. What will you teach the child if you now go out walking?”

“I’m new to this,” Paul answered without thinking. He was rubbing his eyes in real weariness. “I’ll try to be consistent tomorrow.”

Gathering Michelle into her arms – the girl, too, was rubbing her eyes and looked ready to drop – Sophie stood on tiptoe and kissed Paul on both of his cheeks, in the French habit, and then frowned up at him, her fingertips tickling her own lips. “But the baby is correct,” she laughed. “Papa _is_ rough.” 

“I will shave!” Paul promised as she started up the path. He stood at his doorway, watching Sophie’s figure become smaller and more distant. Finally, satisfied that she was fine, he closed the door and found the glass of wine he’d not yet touched. Sipping it with appreciation, he made his way back to the kitchen for another bit of bread, and a little fruit, and then put everything away, cleaning up after himself.

It wasn’t really so late, but now that he was alone Paul could feel his exhaustion settling in. He’d wanted to try out that bathtub, but that suddenly felt like too much work. Instead he simply slipped into a pair of pajamas – he was starting to like wearing them – and settled into bed along with Theodore, not caring whether the stove had enough wood for the night.

He lay flat on his back, looking out the window, still marveling at the brightness of the stars in this darkened vineyard. The same stars shining over London and Liverpool – over John, and Jane, and George and Ringo; over his father and brother, and all the people he had ever known and loved, from childhood, on. Over all the men and women on the Hamburg streets, and in New York and everywhere in the world, struggling to survive their lives of hurt and abuse and betrayal. Over all people who hurt them, as well -- hit them, raped them. _Hit me._ _Raped me_.

It seemed unfair, somehow, that such people – the bad people, the evil, sick ones -- should have a share of this unrelenting beauty. _But that’s someone else’s call, isn’t it? Tonight, the stars and planets shimmer over all of us, and the Milky Way is aglow where it can be seen…shining down over the good and the bad, the loved ones and the lonely ones. All the lonely people._

_Where do we all belong?_

Another tear, unanticipated and completely unbidden slipped over his temple and on to the pillow and he hugged Theodore to his chest, both arms going around the stuffed bear. _Why am I still crying,_ he wondered. _This was a beautiful day. I have found my little girl. And she loves me._

The image came back to him of her little hand reaching out, over and over, during supper. Patting his arm. A little girl reassuring herself that her newly found papa was still there beside her. And right behind that memory, so heartgripping yet so enlightening for him, came John's fear-filled voice breaking over the phone. _[“What if you love her more than you love me?”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/66241999)_

_Oh, John... Johnny... you break my heart. Every day you break my heart._

_And God, what if I do?_

Another tear fell, and his eyes grew heavier. As he turned on to his side he burrowed his chin into the softness of the teddy bear. Only one thought thrummed through his weary brain before sleep finally came, but it did not surprise him: _What am I doing here?_


	42. Here Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul wakes up to his daughter poking him in the eye and making unexpected demands on him. Meanwhile, a guilt-ridden John is in London and barely in control of his emotions or his sexual energy. Mimi is not much help. Paul needs to call him. Right after he takes a bath. There is fluff, but there is angst, too and some sexual stuff. In fact, word-for-word... more angsty than fluffy, in ways obvious and perhaps hidden. And sexual.

The sun was warm on his face, but the rest of Paul felt cold, so cold. He turned, pulling the comforter more tightly around him and turned away from the unwelcome light. He was in France, he remembered, the thought passing through his brain like fluid through a net. _In a vineyard. My baby loves me. Nice sleep. I am liking the sleep. I want more sleep._

Indeed, he was unusually comfortable. He’d had a night unplagued by dreams and the soft squishiness of Theodore was a silly cosolation he appreciated more every day. He hadn’t slept so well in what felt like a very long time, and he groggily settled in for a little more. _A few more hours. In a vineyard. It’s cold._

Digging more deeply into his covers, he fell into another serene, if chilly, slumber.

He must have dreamt it, though, the chill, because now he was overheated – roasting, in fact, and tossing off the covers. He smelled coffee, a rich dark blend and sighed … _mmmh, I’ll get up and make coffee, see what there is for breakfast. In a little while…_

He was about to drop-off heedlessly into yet another floaty twilight when he felt something pass over his eyelashes. He flicked it away, frowning. A moment later he felt something pressing directly on to his eyelid, and then a small hand on his face, moving over his whiskers – a small bit of weight on his chest, and a little voice near his ear. “Papa, be awake. I want to see you.” Another finger poking his eye. “Open your eyes, Papa.”

He kept them closed, his hands coming round to hold his daughter at her waist. “Is it an angel I hear?” He frowned. “It could not be. Angels sing.”

The response was immediately and loud: _“She wa' jus' sebenteen an' yoo no wha' ah meeen, an' the way she look 'as way b'yon compaare...”_

Paul’s eyes flew open. “Oh, God no!” He gathered the little girl into his arms and flipped her about on the mattress until she dissolved into giggles. “That’s it! You are not to listen to any more of my songs until you’ve learned proper English! Until you’re eighteen at least! And where is your mother, Michelle?”

Sophie appeared instantly at the doorway, her hands clasped under her chin. She seemed to be wondering whether to interrupt the two or join them. She settled on interruption. “Michelle, you devil, I told you to leave Papa to his sleep!”

“But Papa is to be awake,” Michelle called out from beneath her father’s roughhousing. “And ‘e asked me to sing!”

“Aye, and what does she do but sing me a bawdy song from my catalogue!” Paul added. “And you shouldn’t let her listen to such trash, Sophie!” The girl shrieked in laughter as he stopped tossing her about and reached for his robe. “Alright, alright,” he told her. “Let me get up and be washed.”

“You have only a little time,” Sophie warned, scooping Michelle up from the bed. “I am making for you a breakfast and coffee and-”

“So, I didn’t dream it,” Paul threw her a look of pure gratitude. “Bless you, Sophie. The coffee smells wonderful. I’ll only be a moment.”

“But Papa must…” at a loss for the word, the little girl looked at her mother and pantomimed a motion which gave Paul pause.

“She wants me to slit my throat?”

Sophie gurgled in amusement. “To _‘shave’_ , little one,” as she pantomimed the action on Michelle’s cheeks and then looked up to Paul. “She wants you to--”

“Shave, Papa,” Michelle all but ordered, _“tu es hérissé!”_

“I’m too _hairy?”_ He shot an exaggerated look of exasperation toward Sophie. “Is that what she’s complaining about?”

The girl bent her head in amusement as her daughter climbed down from her grip. She blushed at Paul and made a swiping motion over her face. “She means you are…er…spiky… _malrasé_ , or _bristly_ , like a brush,” she explained.

“Oh, I’m _spiky_ am I?” Paul struck an offended pose. He was enjoying his indignation.

“She only wants to touch your face in softness, you see.”

Michelle, having heard the word she needed, was pushing Paul from behind, both small hands shoving against his rear end, and directing him toward the bathroom. “ _Oui_ , Papa is _prickle_ ,” was all he understood as the little girl prattled on in French, but it was clear he would have to shave if he wanted café – that much he caught.

“Alright, alright,” he surrendered, both hands up, as he grabbed his kit from the dresser, “Papa is going, you brass-faced little gypsy!”

Unable to hide a smile, he shook his head at Sophie, who was laughing quietly, and then shut the bathroom door on both of them. A moment later he heard the young woman calling through the door. “Paul?”

“Yes, Sophie?”

“How do you prefer your eggs?”

There was a pause. Sophie assumed him to be shaving and unable to respond quickly. She could hear water running.

“Sophie?”

“Yes, Paul?”

“This feels familiar.”

“What do you mean,” she frowned.

The door opened, and Paul shoved his heavily lathered and half-shaved face at her. “Apparently when I go into a bathroom you get an urge to feed me? [And must call at me through the door?”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/57433279)

Her memory jogged, Sophie covered her mouth in surprise, suppressing an urge to laugh out loud. “But it is true! I am sorry.”

“No need,” he grinned. “Scrambled, please. With a bit of that cheese, maybe, yeah?” He turned his attention to Michelle, who was seated on the edge of his bed, looking wide-eyed at his appearance. “Hey, _mon capitaine_! Is this good enough? Am I not so bristle?”

Michelle’s brows came down instantly. She gave him a frown that could have taken out a city block.

“ _Whoops_ , I guess that’s a no, then. Off I go!”

When he emerged a few minutes later, freshly shaven and sporting a light dose of after shave, he found his daughter unmoved from her spot and took a knee before her. “There now, my pearl, is this better? Is Daddy clean enough for his fastidious little girl?”

Michelle only smiled hugely in response, taking both of his cheeks into hand and squeezing.

“Hey, now, no squeezing Daddy’s face. You’re not an auntie you know.”

“Soft,” Michelle murmured, stroking him and then throwing her arms around his neck. “ _Papa est beau._ ”

“Well I’ve done one thing right, then. That’s a good start.” He began to stand, his daughter in his arms, when she leaned over to the bed, picking up Theodore with a frown.

“Papa, but why does you ‘ave a soft ‘uggy doll?”

Paul brushed his clean-shaven cheek against Michelle’s until she giggled and then sat on the bed, taking the doll from her hand. “Lovey, this is Daddy’s friend, Theodore. Can you say ‘hello, Theodore’?”

She greeted the bear in passable English, and accepted his bow from the waist, but her curiosity would not be deterred. “But ‘e is a toy.”

“Yes, he is. Given me by my friend, John. Have you seen John in our pictures?”

Michelle nodded her head, not at all interested in John Lennon. “But ‘e is a toy,” she repeated more firmly, as though Paul were a little demented. "Why does you ‘ave a huggy bear doll?”

Kissing her temple, Paul murmured the secret into her ear. “Because, I didn’t have my own darling Michelle to hug until yesterday, did I?” To demonstrate, he clutched her to him. “And now Daddy can hug his little one! And… he can carry her on his shoulder like a sack of potatoes!”

With that Paul rose, settling the child on one shoulder and bouncing her around a bit as he invented a silly marching song about potatoes and trooped them into the small kitchen, where Sophie was just setting out plates full of cheesy eggs and fruit.

“Special delivery, Mademoiselle! Where would you have this sack of potatoes?”

“Potatoes just there.” Sophie, ever serene, seemed unfazed at hearing her daughter referred to as a bag of root vegetables. She stepped back, pouring coffee into a large stoneware mug and then adding a dollop of heavy cream and a heaping teaspoon of sugar. “I do not remember if you take café just so, but I promised to fatten you up, so _voila!_ Enjoy!”

Noting the production she’d made of it, Paul made an equal production of tasting the coffee and discovered he loved it. “Decadent, Sophie. And delicious, thank you.”

She smiled as he dug into the eggs, sighing after swallowing a mouthful and noting a doorstep-sized slice of fresh bread, loaded with butter on his bread dish. “I hope I can still fit me trousers when I leave here,” he joked. He noticed Sophie had not touched her own food, and tossed his head in Michelle’s direction. The little girl was holding her bread in both hands and taking an impressive bite. “The captain’s chowin’ down, love, aren’t you eating?”

“I will,” Sophie blushed faintly, looking apologetic. “But first, I must sincerely apologize, Paul.” He frowned as he took another appreciative sip of the coffee. “For what, girl? Nothing amiss I can see. And this is a wonderful breakfast.”

“I promised, and have broken it. Twice I have said if you were to come that never would I intrude, unless invited.” She waved her hands in a shrug, as though she didn’t understand her own actions. “But then this morning, the little one, you see. So eager to have you…I wanted to let you rest…” her voice trailed off.

“Aw, no love, it’s fine. I did rest; I slept well. And I can understand you’re feeling a little overpowered by this one, because I’ve not known her a full day yet, and she’s already ordering me about like I’m a worker bee, isn’t she?” Paul smiled and gave Sophie’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “She is bossy as you warned me, though,” he added. “Just like her mother.”

Picking up his fork, he shoveled another forkful of eggs into his mouth and tried not to choke as he chuckled at her.

“ _Raiment,_ ” Sophie spoke to her plate with a small smile as she picked up her own fork, finally able to eat. “That is a joke, yes? Because I seem to remember a boy in Hamburg, who always was nagging at his fellows for late time and to be places, and also telling everyone how to play their instruments.”

“Oh yes,” Paul’s eyebrows went up as he pretended to recall. “What was his name, again...”

“Ugh! So long ago, I must think…he was called ‘Mucca? Macaah’? A most awful bossy boy, like a prince when he walked, but then screaming as he played.”

“Ohhh, that chap,” Paul agreed, his lips tugging upward. “I remember him! Bit of a showoff, he was.”

“Perhaps,” Sophie smiled at him affectionately. “But lovely and warm when away from the crowds.”

“I heard he made a bad end, though,” he shook his head like a philosopher and then winced a little, realizing he’d opened a door for the question that must obviously follow.

“But why? Has something happened to the Macca?”

He finished his coffee, then looked at Sophie over the brim of his mug. “Well, he died, di’nt he? Still propped up for the shows, you know, but dead as Marley. State secret.” Pushing his plate away, he changed the subject, nodding toward his daughter. “Is there more coffee? And when this little brute finishes her brekkie, shall we take a walk?” 

***

As a little family hidden in the Loire Valley of France took a bit of exercise in the crisp winter air, John Lennon was trying to avoid getting up from bed.

It was late, he knew it. Cyn had already been in twice to try to coax him out, the second time leaving behind a cup of hot tea and a plate of toast, which went untouched. Julian had come in and out, babbling at his father with wide eyes and then getting the message and leaving when his words had failed to inspire any response.

He hated himself. Hated that he’d been so dull and uncompanionable to Cynthia. Hated himself for being an absent parent, even when physically present, to Julian.

He hated everything. He hated everybody. _Except Paul._

_I miss Paul…_

Mimi would be next to show up, he figured. Coming in and scolding him for a lazy sod who was rudely ignoring his company – that would be her – and further guilting him however she might until he finally rose with a sigh and faced his life.

It was a good life, he knew. Compared to the lives of many it was a downright easy life, too. Playing music for a living with men he loved as true brothers, making scads of money. The whole world loved him. It didn’t know him, but it loved him.

He hated the whole world. All of it. _Except Paul._

_I miss Paul…_

Turning over in bed, he finally opened his eyes and stared straight ahead at the white blur of a ceiling he would take on faith as actually being there. _Why, then… your life is not bad, Lenny…_ in his head, he tried to rouse himself. _You know it could be worse._

 _Aye, it could_ , his heart seemed to sigh in defeated response. _But without Paul it’s just a life._

He could hear Mimi’s firm steps in the hall and her most hectoring tones preceding her arrival into his room. She didn’t even attempt a pretense of manners as she ambled in without pause and stood at the foot of his bed. “Get up, John! Why are you sleeping the day away when your son is looking for you and you have company?”

 _Thar she blows_ , he thought. _And here be dragons._

“What company,” he asked, his voice muffled in the sheets. “Who company?”

“ _Me_ company, you spoilt thing. Given I’ll be leaving tomorrow you could at least _pretend_ you still want me here today.”

John pulled the covers down from his face with a sigh. “Of course I want you, Mimi. I’m just tired.”

“You’re just petulant, pouting in your room because I sent your little friend away. You haven’t changed a day since Mendips, son.” She sat on the edge of his bed, looking down at him with unusual affection. She even brushed his fringe away from his eyes, a move which made John smile despite himself.

“S’not that,” he started.

“It’s exactly that,” Mimi finished. “When you were teenagers and I’d tell Paul to go home you’d shut yourself up in your room, refuse food and tell me to go to hell.”

“I’ve not said that,” he started again.

“Not in so many words.” She sat primly near him, hands in her lap, knees together and ankles crossed like the middle-class English lady she was and eyed John’s cigarettes on his nightstand. “I do suppose I could have kept my mouth shut and left him to figure out what he really wanted on his own, but John, the poor lad seemed so adrift…”

“I know,” John acknowledged, “he did.”

“Have you heard from him? Has he met her?”

“I guess so. He’s a grown man, you know. Doesn’t need to check in with me to tell me what’s what every minute, then, does he?”

“No,” Mimi helped herself to a cigarette and struck a match. “But I am surprised he didn’t.”

“Probably rollin’ around in mud with that kid and laughin’ like a loon,” John supposed in a slightly flinty voice. _Forgotten all about me._ _Maybe he’s falling in love with Sophie and he’ll never come back. Jane and I will drink ourselves sick and throw each other into the Serpentine. Wait… would that work?_

“Do you resent him for it?”

He sat up against the headboard, lighting a cigarette of his own and coughing hugely on the first puff. “No,” he decided. “Not really. I just…” He peered at Mime through the smoke. “Thought we’d have a longer visit, you know.”

“John Lennon, you will have Paul McCartney at your side your whole life. If you don’t know that by now, you’re more of a fool than either of us ever thought.”

John nodded but sadly, fingering at the beautiful bedspread Paul had given to him and Cyn just days ago. “It’s different, Mimi. He’s different. _We’re_ different.”

“Well, that’s to be expected for a little while, don’t you think? But different how? Describe it to me.”

_He barely touches me; he won’t let me touch him. I haven’t felt his tongue pass my lips, or had my lips anywhere on him in so long. We don’t make love anymore. We don’t even rub about a bit. He’s afraid. I’m terrified. I miss him. I miss my lover. It’s like they killed him, at his heart, and I miss Paul…_

“I don’t think I could, Mimi. He’s just different. He doesn’t sing, you know. I’ve not heard him sing or play a note since it happened. Can you believe that? I can’t… that’s not the Paul I know. He’s stopped his music.” John sounded miserable enough to groan, and he did. “He’s not my Paul. Not half of him.”

Mimi met John’s eye with a knowing look of sympathy. She’d not missed the pause before John had answered, or the way he’d closed his eyes so tightly, as though he was feeling a genuine, immediate pain. “No, it doesn’t sound like our boy, does it? And you miss him. Of course you do.”

John didn’t even need to answer but his nod – almost imperceptible – seemed heavy with surrender.

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, each puffing deeply, filling the bedroom with smoke until Mimi waved her hand around in it and moved to open a window.

“S’freezin’ out there,” John objected.

“Good. It will shake you out of your mood to move around. You’ll have to get up and close it yourself. And then get clean and come down to lunch and see your wife and son.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered unable to resist a little habit of spite. “Funny you comin’ up here to plead for Cyn. S’not like you ever liked her.”

“Cynthia…” Mimi paused for a moment. “She’s grown on me.”

“Hmph, amazing,” John said around his cigarette as he cast a jaded look in his aunt’s direction. “Shut the door, then, if you’re leavin’ unless you want to see me--”

Mimi shut the door, firmly, on John’s words. “How did I raise someone so vulgar,” she called through the door.

“ _Bit’s ‘n pieces_ , you old prune! I was gonna say ‘bits n’ pieces’, then, not me bloody balls!”

“It astounds me to this day that no one has yet sliced them from you, you repellent little man!”

“Aw, sod off,” John mumbled, tamping out his ciggie and shuffling back under the covers. Truth be told, the cool air felt good against his arms and chest, a nice contrast to the sultry warmth of the bed as he slid back into it.

He would get up in a minute. _And change the sheets_ , he thought, recalling the previous night – the memory of a house asleep and Cyn feeling randy and…and that’s why he didn’t want to get up and face her today, he knew.

The guilt.

He’d cheated on Cyn last night, and in a bad way. And not for the first time in that way, either but somehow this morning it felt like he’d reached a new low, a new record in being a louse of a husband, for he really had not been with Cyn at all.

As he was with Julian on too many days, John had been physically present to his wife the previous night, but otherwise absent. So absent in heart and in spirit, in fact, that at one point he’d realized he’d spent so much time going down on Cyn – and then staying there -- simply because a lad could do that and let his mind wander, and the bird could still have a pretty good time.

Not a bird. A woman. _Yer wife, for Chrissake, Lenny. Aye, she had a good time. Too bad you were off with someone else._

He’d cheated on Cyn before. Of course he had! All the birds on the road, and even in London sometimes, at some party or club. It meant nothing, though. Cyn had to know it.

And yes, there was Paul – although he had never thought of being with Paul as cheating on Cyn, because Paul had been there first -- had _always_ been there; had been there since the summer he was still eighteen years old, still only a year older than Paul, [and they had come together so naturally.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/55594030#workskin)

Truth be told, after John had married her, it was Paul who’d struggled with scruples about carrying on as a couple, _although he got past them pretty quickly_ , John remembered now.

Still, there was messing about with meaningless women who never came near to touching his feelings for Cynthia, and there was Paul, who was utterly irrelevant to his feelings for her – the thing between him and Paul stood outside of everything else, in John’s mind, and always had, and always would.

But then last night… last night was _bad_. He knew it. Last night he’d utterly lost track of Cynthia in the midst of his head-heat, in the midst of his need for Paul.

And no, it wasn’t the first time he’d permitted himself to bring a headful of Paul to his marital bed – he’d done it all along, but very infrequently -- a now-and-then thing.

It had been happening a lot more, since… since… _since Paul got hurt and was taken from me_.

Even that, though, was no excuse for the profound disrespect he’d shown his wife but a dozen hours ago or so, even if she never knew it. In the arms of his wife, the entirety of his person had been given over to thoughts of Paul. It was Cynthia’s body but Paul’s thighs he kissed and bit and groaned over, Paul’s lips he kissed, Paul’s mouth he invaded, going deep and lingering in warm, luscious kisses that had Cyn sighing like a bride. It was Paul writhing beneath him as he suckled and nibbled on soft pink nipples – Macca was as sensitive as any bird, there -- and John could feel his partner arching off the bed, pressing his chest to him in response and grabbing his hair, even as Cynthia moaned and panted beneath him.

It was Paul sucking at his neck and clutching at his back, legs wrapped around his torso. Paul, urging him on. Paul, breathless and chanting his name again and again. Paul, shuddering beneath him, milking John’s own orgasm from him, “baby, yes, baby, yes, please…” his eyes shut tight.

John could see Paul, his beautifully bowed mouth opened in a perfect, straining 0 as he reached, his eyes closed, his gorgeous face flushed in that ecstatic moment, and as John poured himself into his wife, it was all he could do not to betray himself, not to groan it out, “Oh, Paul, Paul, Paul…” _My Paul. My heart._

John’s eyes were closed as he relieved the moment, and he realized with surprise that not only was he hard, he’d been mindlessly stroking himself, so needful -- his own hand ready to become Paul for him if it meant having even the smallest sense of being with... _belonging with..._

 _Stop it, Lenny, pull yourself together_.

His intention was good, but the images began to come at John fast and hard – himself pretending to sleep as he watched Paul with birds in Hamburg, taking his time. Not for the girl’s sake but for Paul’s own need to satiate his oral fixations, because no man on earth loved a good pair of titties more than Paul McCartney, who would linger at a chest – any chest, John knew, even a prossie’s… _even my own_ – until the lucky one beneath him would be churning, begging for him, hips moving in a wanton search for his cock, and then, finally, he would bury himself inside, his arse clenching as he drove forward, hunching his back as he thrust higher, coaxing his lover along with words and kisses until it seemed impossible for him to go deeper without coming out one’s throat. _Christ it was so hot to watch._ _So hot to live through_ , he knew, having been treated to all the ways Paul catered to that thing that drove him -- that inner need he had that he didn't himself understand -- by using his mouth. _To smoke, to sing, to scream, to make us scream until we’re spent. It’s how he stays alive…_

His hand roving over himself a bit more desperately, John was suddenly in Miami Beach. It was 1964 and they’d been posing for pictures. He’d been [watching Paul frolic in the waves like a playful otter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20451938), flirting with the camera, flirting with him, and everyone else in sight, frustrating the hell out of John until he’d gotten back to the hotel and flung a laughing Cynthia on the bed (sorry, Cyn, again) and had his way with her until he’d worked out his lust. His need. _Paul, you fucker of a world-tease. Paul, my happiness._

And then he was in Minneapolis – or was it Michigan – he could never keep the cities straight, but they’d been raided for decency by the cops, and there was Paul in mid-rut with some girl, not ready to open the door to them. “Wasn’t finished,” he’d groused later, still feeling the frustration. John had invited him back to his own room with a nod of the head. “I know a place where you can finish...” _Paul, my love…_

He couldn’t stop. A sense of shame was eating him alive as John permitted himself to drown in the memories, allowed his love for Paul to wash over him as he gasped, and groaned. He felt hot tears fall freely, uncontrollably, as the warmth of his own seed burst over his hand. _Paul, Paul, Paul…oh God, my Paul…_

_I love you… I love you…Oh, Paulie, I love you. Please come home…please don’t stay…_

***

“Thank you, darling,” Paul said for the twentieth time as his daughter reached to the ground and handed dead lengths of grapevine to him. “Why does she keep giving me these dead things,” he asked Sophie in a low voice.

“For the fire,” the young woman laughed, he eyes dancing. “She wants her papa to be warm.” Seeing his puzzled expression, Sophie explained. “Your stove was cold this morning, and the cabin was of a chill. The little one was upset that the fire had gone out.”

“Oh…” Paul blushed, feeling stupid. “I was so tired last night, I didn’t bother adding wood.”

“ _Oui_ , when we entered, we could see our breath, so a new fire was needed. The dead vines jump aflame, hot and fast, so to suit the small logs.”

“Ah, fat kindling, then,” Macca’s inner Scout said knowingly. “That’s lovely, my pearl,” he praised his daughter as she handed him a long vine and he began to wrap them all into a tight bundle, familiarly, as though they were microphone cables.

“But, no, the vines are not fat; they are _tres_ _slender_ , like whips, almost,” Sophie joked, giving him a coy look, which Paul returned, shaking a finger at her. “You know what I meant,” he laughed, “you are smart as a whip, yourself.”

“Maybe,” she shrugged in that way she had. “But never do I sting.”

“No,” Paul agreed, standing nearly toe-to-toe with her, an appreciative smile on his face. “You’re entirely too kind to sting. Or to leave a mark.”

A feeling began to rise in him, one he didn’t understand but thought it might somehow connect to his own recent stings and marks, the ones no one could see -- would never be permitted to see -- and he willed it down. The day was too lovely for it. He scooped Michelle up into one arm, and offered Sophie the other. “Let’s go back,” he said. “It’s cold and I still have presents to give you.”

“No, but Paul,” Sophie moaned, “I told you no more. It is un… no _nécessaire_ _!_ Already you have made beautiful gifts to us. It is enough.”

“Ah, but it is very _nécessaire, mon ami,”_ Paul’s baldly exaggerated accent brought another smile to her face. “I need the room in my luggage. And besides, they’re meant for you, and no one else.” From the side of his eye he could see Sophie’s moue as she seemed to battle with herself about it all. “Really, love, it’s nothing big. Small things I picked up on impulse for you and Michelle a few days before Christmas…” his voice faded away as he recalled that day of such different moments, _if he’d bagged me he might as well have let me die…_ Forcing himself to step briskly, he took his arm from Sophie and threw his daughter up in the air, just a little – enough to make the girl shriek into giggles. “And besides,” he continued, “I bought ‘em so late that if I’d not come here now, I’d have had to deliver them for St. Patrick’s Day, wouldn’t I?”

Returning to the cabin, Michelle had immediately taken the vines from Paul and placed them next to the pile of smallish logs meant for the stove, and Paul – meaning to prove to Sophie that yes, he really did know how to feed a fire – did just that. “Can we have more of your delicious coffee, Sophie? Is their more?”

“But of course,” Sophie was already in the kitchen. “But there is tea, also. English tea, I know you like. Or perhaps a pot of chocolate?”

Paul and Michelle both looked up at the word ‘chocolate’ catching each other’s wide eyes. “I think chocolate it must be, Mama! _Oui_ , my pearl?” Paul’s daughter, increasingly in sync with her father, merely nodded her head and smiled, her dark eyes sparkling into his.

They were seated on a small sofa, he and Sophie, finishing their chocolate while their daughter was wandering about the little cabin, flitting from window to window and singing lightly to herself. Paul’s head was propped up on one arm, and he was squinting at dark haired young woman next to him.

“What?” She asked. “What is burning a vine in your head?”

“Do you see smoke, then,” he teased. “My mother used to say that: ‘You must be thinking, Paul, I see smoke coming out your ears’.”

Sophie frowned, not quite understanding the humor. “Is it a joke,” she asked. “Or was your mama like mine?”

“Oh, God no,” Paul barked a laugh. “Ma Mère is just John’s auntie Mimi a few classes higher. My mother was very kind, like you. It’s just an Irish tease, ‘Someone is thinking; I smell smoke.’”

“But then what is it you were thinking that made you go like this.” She mimicked his narrowed eyes back at him.

His own well-trained manners made him blush. “Oh, I’m sorry, was I staring at you, love? I was just trying to remember…”

“Remember what?”

“Whether or not you knew I liked chocolate, because of our time together in Hamburg.”

Now it was Sophie’s turn to blush, and she ducked her head. “Then the answer is _oui_ , yes. When the rest of us would eat a meal, you would eat chocolate, and I would see. One day when we all were walking, you stopped to buy a big…” she made a shape approximating a large rectangle, “like so, slab of chocolate and then broke it for all of us to share.” She crinkled her nose in recollection. “Everyone but George, who you teased first, because you said or else he would eat all of it.”

“You remember that,” Paul marveled, only now recollecting the afternoon.

“Oui,” Sophie smiled, her face still tinged a light pink. “I remember. Also, you made him promise to do something…to write a thing?”

“To write a letter to his mother. Lazy sod. Louise would always send him money and he’d never write. But now…” he walked over to his little Christmas trees, whose packages below had been catching Michelle’s interest all afternoon. “Please open these. I promise, they are small.”

He put two packages into Sophie’s lap and then looked around. “Where’s she gone, our little wanderer? _Ma belle,”_ he called out, “where are you?”

“ _Oui_ , I am here, Papa.” The little girl came out of his bedroom, carrying Theodore. “I am bring Teeo’doh for you.”

“Oh, for me, are you,” her father looked skeptical.

“But yes, and I will hold him for you.”

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll hold Theodore, and you can have these presents, yes?”

He barely got the words out of his mouth before his daughter began excitedly ripping paper, uncovering a cream-colored Aran sweater that looked a size too big. She immediately cast it into her mother’s lap and then regarded the strangely wrapped package that remained, looking at Paul with nearly the same skeptical expression he’d just shown her. He looked back, giving her a serious, wide-eyed look, while embracing the bear, his chin resting on Theodore’s head. “That gift is from your _Oncle Jean_ ,” he pronounced.

“Mama, who is my oncle Jean?”

“He is my friend, baby," Paul answered. "Remember? The one who gave Theodore to me? He has sent this for you, now,” Paul explained.

Once again that dark little frown. _“Mais_ _pourquoi_ _?”_

“Why?” Paul frowned back. “Because he wants to make friends with you, too.”

Sophie chided the little girl for her reticence and helped her to unwrap the untidy gift – the fez-hatted monkey with cymbals.

Paul found himself stifling a laugh as both Sophie and Michelle recoiled from the toy. Sophie with a mix of humorous horror and genteel politeness, and Michelle with bald truthfulness.

“It is so, so ugly.”

Sophie, her limits reached, burst into laughter and nodded her head. “It really is, Paul. I am sorry. Please say thank you to John, as is proper, but…”

“Yes, it is ugly,” he agreed, turning to Michelle. “But is funny, too, and your Uncle John has sent it along, just for you. It is mechanical, you see?” He picked up the monkey and began cranking the key at its back. Holding Michelle’s gaze, he released his grip and let it unspool, the horrible grinning monkey banging away on the cymbals for nearly forty seconds before the gears wound down.

Michelle screamed in delight, clapping her hands in a little dance. “It is so, so... _stupide_ ,” she insisted. “Again, make it do!”

“Michelle!” Sophie sounded scandalized. “How do you know that word?”

 _“Tante Simone,”_ Michelle answered, too wrapped up in trying to turn the key to attend closely. “She always say ‘is _stupide_ ’.”

“Well, you will _not_ say it, do you hear?”

“ _Oui_ , Mama! Papa, will you do again?”

Paul took it from her hands and again spun the key, speaking very quietly to Michelle. “Your mama is correct,” he said in a kind way. “Daddy agrees, it is stupid. But for Mama’s sake, we will say only that it is crazy, yes? A crazy toy?” He held the monkey to her face as the cymbals went off again, and Michelle once more tumbled into laughter, utterly under the monkey’s spell. When the noise stopped she brought it to Sophie. “Oui, Mama, we may call it crazy?”

Sophie rolled her eyes at Paul, as she started to turn the key once more. “I suppose ‘crazy’ is a littlest bit better than ‘stupid’, _oui_.”

“I can’t wait to tell John she loves it,” Paul sat back into the corner of the couch, considering. “That he and a four year-old both uniquely understand that thing's grotesque genius."

“How is John?” Sophie looked embarrassed. “I am sorry to have not asked. All of the boys, they are well?”

“John is good.” Paul said shortly. “Everyone is good,” He leaned over, taking the little sweater from her lap, and holding it up. “Will it fit?”

“I am sure,” she agreed. “If not now, then soon. It is very lovely, Paul, _merci_. And to be very warm.”

“I told you these were nothing gifts. And now you can guess what is in your packages.”

She opened the shawl first and immediately draped it over her shoulders, stroking the softness of the Irish wool. “ _C’est magnifique_ ,” she pronounced. “Such a skill of beauty!” Breaking open the long blanket brought an enthusiastic gush of French from her before she could stop herself. “I adore this,” she grinned, immediately wrapping it around both of them. “It is of a quality so fine! _Absolument!_ Always I have envied women who can do this work.”

“Well, damme, if I’d know you’d love the knitting so well, I’d never have seen the jeweler,” Paul teased. He stroked the blanket, himself, appreciating its softness. “It really is fine, isn’t it?”

“ _Oui_ , but no, Paul, the bracelet…it too, I treasure, very much.” She held out her wrist and he took it, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand, his words seeming to stall in his throat before he turned it this way and that, allowing it to catch the afternoon light.

“It seemed made for you, Sophie,” he said softly, letting go of her wrist and gathering Michelle into his lap. The little girl was rubbing her eyes.

“Michelle, my love, it is time for a little sleep,” Sophie remarked, getting up to gather their things.

“ _Non, Mama,_ ” her daughter yawned, resting her head upon Paul’s shoulder.

“Yes, baby,” he said, taking her coat from Sophie and slipping her arms into it. “You take that crazy monkey and have a sweet sleep, yeah? Think of what name to call him.”

“But you will come home, too?” Her little voice was taking on that dreamy sound that meant she would not last much longer.

“Not now, darling, later. Daddy has brandy to bring up to Uncle Maxime, later, and will see you then.”

“You will come for supper, again, _oui?”_ Sophie asked, lowering her voice.

“Oh, I don’t know, Sophie,” Paul tried to beg off, “I’m not sure I’m in the mood to be in company so soon, a formal dinner…”

“No, no, but a little late supper, then, after on. In the kitchen, we will eat, just you and I? _Oui?_ We will busy ourselves during their meal and eat after?” 

Her eyes were so bright with expectation, he couldn’t say no. “Alright,” he agreed, transferring Michelle to her mother’s shoulder. “I will come up later on, and we will work it out.”

“Papa, come now,” the sleepy little girl droned into Sophie’s neck.

“Later, baby,” he promised. “Daddy still needs a proper bath,” he explained, more to Sophie than his daughter, who seemed already asleep. “And I must call Uncle John and tell him she loves his stupid monkey.” 


	43. Reassuring John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Paul prepares to spend some alone time with Sophie, he makes a point of trying to keep John from falling into a tailspin of insecurity and doubt. He really tries. But he is not anywhere near as successful as he thinks he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very brief chapter -- a snapshot, really. Next chapter is already being worked on, but I figured I'd drop this because it's been a few weeks. Hopefully next chapter will be in a few days.

“Y’see, Macca, it’s typical. You’ve been overthinking the thing, like always. The monkey _is_ grotesque. That’s why it’s brilliant! You look for things to make sense in the world. You’re all closed in like that. _Of course_ the baby loves the monkey, even though she sees the travesty of it. That’s because she’s just like me, she is.”

“Oh yes,” Paul grinned into the phone, relieved to hear John’s laughter. “And how is that, since she is sprung from my loins?”

“Well, I don’t want to say,” John teased. “Who knows what mysterious and mad alchemy we’ve created over the years, dear. Perhaps your next baby will be a black-haired Lennon and mine will be a red-headed little Macca.”

“ _Next_ baby? Don’t rush me, lad. And that would be weird.”

“I’m just saying, love, be warned: your ween clearly has a touch of the savage about her, just like me – something in her not yet closed to possibilities, aye? So, we both instinctively understand the utter genius of the toy, whereas you can’t. It’s that button-down mind of yours.

“I don’t have a button-down mind! And Sophie was horrified by it, too, you know.”

“So-phresh would be, because she’s classy. She’s clearly an intelligently elevated and evolved being.”

“But I’m not evolved?” Paul pretended to take offense.

“No, my love, you can’t be. If you were evolved, you’d not be tangled up with an unrestrained guttersnipe like me, now, would you?”

“You’re no guttersnipe,” he murmured in a low, affectionate tone. “Or, if you are, I’m one, also.”

“Exactly.” John gave a triumphant blow of smoke his partner could hear all the way in France. “Just look at the company you keep. If you’ve raised me up to the curb, love, we neither of us have learned not to stumble on the steps.”

“I guess we haven’t.”

Paul had enjoyed a lengthy soak in the outsized tub that had been calling to him since he’d arrived and now he was dressed warmly, relaxing over a cup of English tea, examining the bottle of brandy he was planning to present to Uncle Maxime and Aunt Simone (a woman who, if Paul’s instincts were right, would make short work of it). Calling Lennon was the last of his duties before he would have to head up to what he thought of as “the big house”, and to whatever Sophie had planned. A small supper, just the two of them, in the kitchen. Homey. It sounded a bit intimate to him, but if his choices were that or another dinner under the eyes of _Ma Mère_ , he would take it. For now, he was glad to hear John sounding so happy.

“You’re still heading to Liddypool before coming home, then,” Lennon was asking, as though he actually believed Paul might not stop to see his family.

“Yes, hon,” he answered. “You know if I don’t, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Aye, I suppose. I could drive up there, you know, so you don’t have to fly back? Come pick you up, aye?”

Paul couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “Johnny, you’re the worst driver in the United Kingdom, no. And besides,” he gentled his voice. “Y’could say I put me da through a lot this year. I can’t begrudge the time with him.” 

“I suppose not,” John agreed with a long sigh. “I just miss you, is all, love.”

“I know,” Paul winced at the words. He knew John missed him, in every possible way, and that even if his partner hadn’t meant the physical side of things – and Macca suspected he actually might not have – it was something he himself still felt all too aware of. For the first time in his life, he had a sense of what it must have been like for all of the birds they’d ever pestered and called prudes, girls who wanted to give in, but – either due to pregnancy fears or religious fears or both – never could let themselves go. His awareness of all he could no longer do, not with John, not with Jane, was becoming a fast-rising vein of guilt and he had nothing, no skills, no wisdom with which to either tap it down, or mine for something worthwhile. There was nothing valuable there, he believed. Just crippling guilt. His conscience was feeling more singed than he liked, and so Paul put as much tenderness into his voice as he could manage. “I miss you, too, John, love. All the time. You’re in my head all day, you know. My little girl touches my arm and I think of you. She hugs me and I think of you. It’s… crazy.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. When John finally spoke, it was with a tight voice, one holding back a powerful sense of emotion. “Is that right, then… Paulie. You’re thinking of me?”

Paul used a fingertip to spread a drop of tea along the edge of the table as he pulled his own feelings together. “I do, of course.” He cleared his throat, raising his pitch to a tease. “She eats a potato and I think of you. Because as you said, you’re both savages.”

Lennon chuckled, as well. “So…” he grew silent again, wanting to live in the quiet, on the line with Paul, as though there were no one else in the world. “So…today and tomorrow and then you leave, yeah?”

“Mmhmmm…”

“I’m… Paul, I’m glad it’s going well for you. I am, truly. And… and you and Sophie are still getting along alright?”

Paul felt the air lighten. “John, she’s exactly the way you remember her,” he said warmly. “Still tiny and whip-smart. Her pretty hair is still unmanageable. She’s still… _Sophie_. She’s wonderful with Michelle – she doesn’t spoil her at all -- and she seems like she’s the one running the show over here, if you know what I mean. She has that way about her…you know…”

“Competent,” John offered. “And calm.” _He thinks her hair is pretty..._

“Yeah,” Paul sighed. “She’s just… as she ever was, I guess.”

“That’s not surprising. If you hadn’t knocked her up, she’d probably be president of France in twenty years.”

“Mm, no, she’s no interest in that, I don’t think,” Paul shrugged. “But she’d definitely be running… _people_ , somehow. It’s what I keep thinking, and it’s killing me a little, you know? What did I keep her from becoming because I couldn’t just keep my pecker down for a day?”

“Are you fallin’ for her, Paul?” John’s voice sounded purposely blank.

“What, _no!_ Of course not, you stupid git. But I admire her, yeah? We all of us always did, you know.”

“That's true,” Lennon allowed. “She’s a good girl. A lady.”

“She’s not changed, so it’s just as true today as it was in Hamburg. She’s lovely. And she’s natural, you know? It’s like we’ve picked up just where we left off, no strain or whaddycallit, awkwardness.” He lowered his voice again, meaning to nip any Lennonesque mood change in the bud. “You put yer bleedin’ insecurity away, will you, Johnny?” Reminding himself of their last conversation – of John’s need to hear it more often, he said the words. “You know I love you, sweetheart. I love you very much.”

He could hear John’s tremulous sigh over the air. “And I promise: I’m not falling in love with Sophie. How can I when you’re in my head all the livelong day” he teased. “But it’s nice to have another friend. And a comfortable one, too, you know? We’ve both of us too few of them.”

John Lennon couldn’t help but see John Dawson slip through his mind – _there’s a new friend Paulie seemed plenty comfortable with, even sharin' the bed. And there’s that priest, too, that he was up all night with. Why does he need more friends when he has me?_

Somehow, he managed to keep his voice light. “Aye, love, you’re too right…and--and I love you, too. So much, Paulie. _My love,”_ he whispered, too low for hearing.  
  
"You just remember that, and hang on, baby. I'll be home before you know it, aye? Shall I tell you again that I love you, or is it getting too much?" 

"Never enough, Macca..."

Paul laughed, blowing loud ridiculous kisses at John through the phone until his partner declared he would have to vomit. "Too cutesy, my love, by half! But thank you." 

But when the call ended and he hung up the phone, John Lennon couldn’t help but notice the ache in his chest. He put his forehead on his desk, his head ringing with that familiar, hated voice, that jeering tone that was always there, lodged right between his mind and his heart. _You’re not enough. You’ve never been enough for him. He needs these others because you’re not enough. You stupid, unlovable bastard._


	44. What Comes of Kissing Sweet Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul has the best day since the rape. John has his worst.  
> It won't be Paul's last good day, not yet.  
> And it won't be John's last bad day, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it's been so long between chapters, but I have been physically unwell with a chronic condition that has unfortunately come out of remission. But I'm feeling better, now, and so here, FINALLY, is a chapter, and it's a long one, so hopefully you will feel it is worth the wait. We're almost out of France. John is in a steep downward spiral. Pretty soon, the whole story is going to get hard again, so enjoy these last bits of Papa Paul enjoying his daughter and making life difficult in any way he can, for Sophie's mother.

Paul nodded at the chef as the man, speaking rapid French, laid a small dish before him. It held a spoon full of something white, drizzled with something amber.

He looked up at Sophie, who was watching expectantly.

“What’s this, now?”

The young woman gurgled at him, her eyes twinkling, and raised her own spoon. “It is just a bit of cheese, made from goat’s milk, from our own farms, and honey from our vineyard apiaries. The grapes, when they bud, make for lovely honey.”

“It’s… served on a spoon, though. Is that in case I don’t like it? What if I want more?”

Sophie, having swallowed her small portion, licked her spoon and laughed again. “It is much too rich for more. Just a taste, to make sharp the appetite, yes?”

Paul, never an adventurous eater, looked doubtful about the whole business, but went along. His eyes rolled back into his head and he let out a soft groan as the soft mixture dissolved in his mouth in an explosion of delicate, yet complex, flavors. “Blimey.”

“It is surprising, yes?”

He groaned again, licking his own spoon. “Christ, yes.”

“And now, do you want more?”

“No,” he said with an emphatic chuckle. “One taste is _magnifique_ , aye? You’re quite right, though, two would be too much.”

She raised her small glass of white wine, gesturing toward Paul’s which he picked up. “A toast! To… what shall we drink to, _mon ami_?”

“To better days ahead,” he said in a soft, winsome voice as he touched her glass to hers. “You and Michelle have helped me to remember what good days are like. And to realize I want more of them.”

Sophie sighed happily at his words, her head tilted in affection. Her eyes were alive with curiosity, but she would never press Paul about what was behind the sadness she still saw in him. _If he wants me to know, he will tell me_ , she thought, and contented herself with the knowledge that even by her friendship, she was somehow helping him. Instead of prying where she might be unwelcome, Sophie simply drank, watching him, and then set her glass down with a lick of her lips. “I am glad, then,” she said simply. “It was my very wish to make you feel a little happy.”

“Was I so obviously not, to you? In my letter, I guess?”

“In your words,” she nodded, her tone very gentle. “In your eyes when you first arrived, so dark and troubled. But now I once more see _light_ in you. From the inside. Little but there, as though a cloud has lifted a tiny bit and I can see part of the boy I knew.” 

Paul’s lips pursed a bit as he considered, fidgeting a little with his wine glass. When he looked up, his eyes were soft with regret. “I’m sorry that I brought my clouds with me, love. But you and that little girl of yours--”

“Ours.”

That brought a smile to his lips. “Ours. _Ours_ , yes, but you’re the one who is raising her, and so everything she is is a credit to you, Sophie.”

“She was very fresh tonight.”

“I like her a little fresh, though.”

“Yes, I could tell,” Sophie smiled again, blushing a little. “You like her to be… hmmm,” she huffed as she searched for the word. “ _Impertinente_ , but a little, only.”

“The word you want is _sassy_ ,” Paul chuckled. “Respectful but also healthy enough to say what she thinks.”

“Sassy,” Sophie repeated, still smiling. “Is that how you would call her at the piano, tonight?”

Paul and his daughter had finally spent some time together at the small, slightly battered piano that he’d seen in the family room. He’d arrived mid-afternoon, presenting Maxime and Simone with the large, pricey bottle of aged brandy that they laughed about in appreciation. “An old, old rival of this vineyard,” Maxime explained. “And this is a cognac _exceptionale,_ very favored by you _Anglaise_ , and also Germans, and so we never have it, for spite. But merci, monsieur, tonight we will enjoy it with our guests. And of course, you must join us!”

Paul murmured polite words, completely confused by Maxime’s meaning but wanting to be agreeable. “I don’t understand,” he’d whispered to Sophie.

“Ugh, Ma Mere has invited many friends to dine, tonight and to stay the weekend. Already they are arriving and that is why you only hear but do not yet see Michelle. She is busy running about with the other children.” Seeing the look of pure dread on his face, Sophie patted his arm and then stroked it. “Do not worry. It is to harass me that she does this, not you. But we shall not be bothered. Already, I have told you, we shall have a little meal in Remy’s kitchen.”

An expression of relief swept over his brow as Sophie led him through the corridors he still found so confusing, until finally they were in the relaxed and comfortable family room he’d liked on his last visit. “What do you mean, though, about Ma Mere?” There was a note of concern to his question. “Is she ‘harassing’ you, as you say, because of me?”

Though she was not inclined to belly-laughs, Sophie did give a hearty chuckle to that. “Because of you, yes, but also no. She does love to remind me that I have disappointed her – that no one will marry a girl with a baby -- and if she can hurt me by exposing you, she will like it. But no, even before you, before Michelle, Ma Mere is…how you say…” Sophie hesitated, “a finder of faults, yes?”

“An oppressor,” Paul corrected.

“Only to me,” Sophie nodded with a rueful look. “And always, all my life. Upon my brothers she smiles. And upon Michelle, of course.”

“That’s surprising. I’d half expect her to be cruel to Michelle, from vindictiveness, or something. I’m relieved to hear it, or I wouldn’t be able to feel right…”

“I believe she loves Michelle,” Sophie reassured him. “But mostly because the _bebe_ gives her something to hold against me.” She saw Paul’s lips press into a thin line of anger for her sake, and once more placed her hand on his arm. “But I assure you, to our daughter she is very kind.”

“I guess I am glad to hear it. But Sophie, I am sorry. That I’ve brought so much trouble into your life…I’m sorry.”

“But you have not!” Sophie turned to stir the fire a bit, nudging the cat, Edward, with her foot before once more giving Paul her attention. She looked directly into his eyes, taking one hand into her own. “Paul,” she said in a tone that would brook no doubt, “I have not regretted even for one day that afternoon in Hamburg, or the little surprise that came of it, even if Ma Mere calls me _la catin_ , again and again. I am _happy_ for all of my choices, and forever. Truly, I am happy.”

“ _Catin,_ ” Paul seemed like he barely heard her, so focused was he on the word he’d never heard but suspected he knew all too well. “What is that?”

“Mmm,” Sophie tapped her chin a moment in thought before deciding on a better word than ‘strumpet’. “Like a…how you would say, a _loose_ woman, is that the way?”

“Sophie!” Macca gasped, horrified. “She calls you _that?_ But you are…” his displeasure had him sputtering for words. “You are the furthest thing from…that’s a terrible thing for any mother to say to her daughter, but especially to you. You are…why, you’re…the loveliest, most innocent--”

“I’m just a girl [who kissed a sweet boy too many times](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/57433279),” she smiled at him, “and liked it too well to stop.”

“I was no sweet boy,” Paul murmured with real regret.

“But always, you were to me.” Sophie said it with an air of finality, taking both of Paul’s hands into her own. “And Ma Mere can go to hell about it is what I say.”

“Sophie!” Paul blinked, once more feeling shocked by the words coming out of her mouth, and by her chuckles. Sophie was biting her bottom lip a little and her eyes were sparkling at him. “You see? A baby is not all I brought home with me from Hamburg!”

“You didn’t learn that bit of impudence from me, at least,” he smiled back.

“No, _oui,_ but from George,” she admitted.

“Yes,” Paul thought about it for a moment, as if remembering back, and then agreed, with a nod. “Yes. You sound _exactly_ like him. Word for word, even.”

“You can say so when you see him again, yes?”

All without thinking, Macca raised both of Sophie’s hands to his lips, giving her an appreciative look as he kissed her fingers. Smiling back at him, the girl stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him very softly, on one cheek.

It was a warm moment, running on rails of friendship more than romance, still Ma Mare made a disapproving noise as she appeared with Michelle in tow.

The little girl made a dash to Paul, crying, “Papa!” as he lifted her high in the air and then down into a crushing hug. “Hello, my pearl,” he said, nuzzling her cheek. “Daddy has missed you!” The two began a playful exchange of kisses and tickles, ignoring what sounded like tense words between Sophie and her mother. But Paul's curiosity got the best of him.

“Sweetie, listen! What do they say,” he whispered conspiratorially to his daughter, “tell Papa.”

“Is _argue_ ,” Michelle said, not lowering her tone at all. “Always Mama and _la même_ make argue and talk with dey teeth. _”_

“With what, baby? What do you mean?”

Michelle gritted her teeth and growled through them as though to demonstrate. “Dey talk wit _deet_.”

Paul suppressed a laugh, lowering his head to her own and peppering her face with light kisses. “You are _adorable_ , ma Michelle.”

“Papa is _adorable_ ,” Michelle giggled back, tightening her arms around his neck.

Sophie’s tone became so uncharacteristically tense that Paul, who had been trying not to eavesdrop, couldn’t help but notice. He and Michelle watched as a volley of teeth-talking went back and forth between the two women. It occurred to him that Sophie would consider it crass to speak extensively in French before company; he wondered whether she was doing so to spare him any rudeness. After another edgy exchange, Sophie did switch to English, firmly pronouncing that she was see the child washed and dressed in time for dinner, but would not be joining. “Paul and I are eating elsewhere, it is arranged.” she finished.

Ma Mere, apparently displeased at having no opportunity to shame her daughter before her guests, gave a sharp look of distaste in Paul’s direction, wrinkling her nose. “Thrown away on this Irish _bonbon_.”

“Hey now, hold on, a moment,” Paul said, suddenly cutting in. Conversant enough to take the older woman’s meaning, he handed Michelle over to Sophie and walked straight to Ma Mere, eyes shining in fury. “Madam,” he said in a low tone that betrayed every bit of his anger, “I am sorry that you do not like me. But that is fair because I don't like you, either. Do you understand me, or must I ask Sophie to translate my words to you, and in front of our daughter?”

The older woman narrowed her eyes, completely understanding Paul’s dare. With a curt nod she spoke through lips so tight the words barely came out. “I comprehend you perfectly, _prétendant_.”

“Good,” Paul said with a chillingly cold smile as he lowered his head and spoke softly, but in a voice that still carried. “Then understand, woman, that your granddaughter is half Irish, and always will be. I fully expect that Michelle _will not_ have to hear her own grandmother – who presumably loves her – speak with such disrespect about her ancestry, and therefore about her person.” He pulled away slightly, aware that his height and manner were making the older woman uncomfortable.

But he didn’t let up. “Do you still understand me, then? That you have been permitted to disrespect Sophie among your friends and family is shocking to me, but then I had the luck of having loving parents. But you will not do the same with our daughter. If I discover that you disparage your Irish granddaughter, I am of a mind to bring Sophie and Michelle to London, where they will only be loved and respected, and admired, as they deserve.”

He heard Sophie’s soft gasp from behind him – “Paul, no!” -- amid Michelle’s happy babbling.

Ma Mere’s flushed face betrayed her resentment that anyone would speak to her in such a manner, especially someone she clearly regarded as a inferior to her in every way. Holding herself fully erect, her chin elevated, she acknowledged his threat with the barest of nods and made to exit the room until Paul’s voice stopped her. “And, Madam, there is one more thing I hope you understand.” He moved to the doorway and this time made sure only Ma Mere could hear. “Your daughter is no man’s _catin_. She is, in fact, a _lady_. And she is worth ten of you. She is worth ten of me.”

With that, he stepped aside, making a mockery of a bow and a sweeping arm as she passed. “Do enjoy your evening, Madame.”

In the kitchen, Paul snapped back from his memory of that confrontation, catching only the end of whatever Sophie had been saying as Remy placed two small bowls of consommé before them. “Well, yes, er…” With an apologetic smile, he gave up trying to pretend he’d heard any of it. “I’m sorry, love, I was just distracted for a moment.”

“I was only saying how good it was to play at the piano, all three of us.” Sophie gave him a full-on tease of a look as she laid into her soup. “But perhaps I am a bit dull… of a boring, yes?”

“No, not at all,” Paul reassured her. “It’s entirely me. I’ve too much monkey chatter in me brain, too often. My head turns at shiny objects. But you’re right, it was fun. It was brilliant, in fact” His hand went to his chest, all involuntarily. “You don’t know how it thrills me to know she is so musical, Sophie. A little prodigy!”

“You are, perhaps, biased, I think.”

“Maybe a little,” he agreed, finally sipping at his own soup. “But she’s only four and she is reading music and playing a sonatina! Of course Papa is impressed.”

Once Ma Mere had made her exit, Paul had stood in the doorway making a playful show of contrition toward Sophie as he peered at her through comically downcast eyes. “I’m sorry, love. I hope you won’t have to pay for my fit of pique later. Can you forgive me?”

“I am glad you said it, and _bravo_ ,” Sophie said as Michelle climbed down from her arms and went to her Papa, pulling at his arm. “From me, such a speech would mean nothing. But from you, especially if you mean to be in her granddaughter’s life, it matters.”

“Do I mean to be in your life, scamp?” Paul was addressing his daughter, growing and gasping and pretending to struggle in her leading grasp. “It is too much to resist! I suppose I must do.”

“Papa, come play!” Michelle was pulling him with determination toward the piano and, with a defeated look, he grabbed at Sophie’s hand, pulling her along as well.

“Alright, my little lass, play something for Papa. What can you play? Mozart? Beethoven?” He pulled his brows down to a frown. “Rachmaninoff?” He settled the little girl on to his lap and immediately pounded out a bouncy bit of music hall burlesque for her, pressing down on the pedals until Michelle giggle with delight at the resonant vibrations. He stopped, looking at the sheet music in place – there were several pieces there, one very accomplished-looking and two others, obviously simpler. “But Michelle, do you play all of these songs? They look very hard, _tres dificile_ , no?”

“Is Mama’s,” Michelle said, carelessly casting the difficult-looking music to the floor as she found her own.

“I never knew Mama played,” Paul said, raising a brow and sounding indignant that the fact had escaped him. “But what is this,” he asked as he read the titles. “Le Petite Route” and “Le Secrete”. Can you play these songs for Papa?”

Michelle grinned up at him, nodding, as she chewed on one finger and pointed at “Le Petite Route”. Recognizing himself in both her shy gesture and also in the finger-chewing that betrayed anxiety, he smiled at the girl while gently removing her finger from her mouth. _And how many times has John done that for me,_ came the thought. “Do you like that one? ‘The Little Road,” he asked. “Play it for Papa, will you? I will listen.”

He looked up at Sophie and patted the spot beside them. “Mama, come sit with us?”

As Sophie fitted herself on to the small bench, Michelle settled the single sheet of music to her liking and, after tilting her head up to make sure Paul was watching, ran through the little piece of music with the greatest aplomb, making no errors as far as he could tell. “ _Eh, voila!_ ” She announced, hands turned upward in a little shrug as she ended, smiling hugely as her parents applauded her effort. She wiggled happily when Paul gave her an affectionate squeeze. “Brava, little pearl,” he said gently, into her ear. “That was wonderful! And can you play “Le Secrete for me, now?”

Back went the finger into her mouth -- her whole pinky -- and this time Paul removed it immediately. “What is wrong, ma petite, you do not like the song?”

Looking ashamed, Michelle placed her hand to her mouth, whispering something to Paul that he could not understand.

“She says ‘Le Secrete’ is very hard, and she cannot yet play it perfectly so,” Sophie translated, murmuring something that sounded sweet and reassuring to her daughter.

“Well, that’s all right, lovie,” Paul smiled broadly, turning his daughter so that she knelt in his lap, facing him. “Papa makes mistakes all the time, when he plays, and he's playing his own music! That’s how we learn.”

He could tell the little girl was not quite following. “Baby, listen to me. Mama will say it in French, yes,” he looked up at Sophie, who nodded. “Daddy is a famous musician, who plays all over the world,” he waited until Sophie had translated. “And he writes his own music, but still, he makes mistakes.” After another pause, he went on. “He makes mistakes on the piano, and also on the guitar. And even on the words, sometimes. And Uncle John, too,” he smiled down at Michelle, whose eyes were round as platters as she framed his mouth with her hands and watched him speak in an affectionate tone. “In fact, Uncle John ruins the words all the time. He makes so many mistakes, sometimes we just leave them in the records.”

Her eyebrows went up and she looked at Sophie, who nodded, as if to verify, and shared a laughing glance with Paul. “It is true, little one. Uncle John makes many, many mistakes, I know.”

Settling his daughter back down before the keyboard, Paul nudged Sophie with his shoulder for her cheekiness, which made the young woman laugh, and then lowered his lips to Michelle’s ears. “Papa cannot read this music, like you can, darling. So, if you do not play for me, I will never know the song. Can you try? For me? Mistakes are…” he looked over at Sophie. “How do I say ‘okay’ in French?”

“You say, _erreurs sont okay_ ,” Sophie chuckled.

“Oh, you little smartass,” Paul’s eyes were alight. “ _Erreurs sont okay_ ,” he repeated to Michelle. “Only play for Mama and me, yeah?”

“Wha’ are smar’ass,” she asked.

“Oi!” He laughed out loud, blushing as Sophie chortled behind her hands. “Never you mind, little girl!” He adjusted the music – “Le Secrete” was a beginner's sonatina, but two pages long. “Play for Papa, love.”

Slowly, carefully, and with much more caution than aplomb, Michelle managed her way through the piece, making one glaring mistake which caused her to growl and shake her head until she felt Paul kiss her temple, murmuring a father’s encouragement. This time, when she finished, she ducked her head, as though embarrassed while her parents applauded again.

“ _Tres bien, ma petite_ ,” Sophie encouraged. “You are improving!”

“I am proud of you, baby. Never give up,” Paul’s voice was low and a little choked up as he once more spoke quietly to the little girl. “Papa is so happy for you.”

Michelle, looking slightly puzzled at his meaning, nevertheless gave him a wide smile. “Now, Papa play ‘Le Secrete’,” she urged.

Her father gasped. “Papa cannot read the notes, honey. And as you say, it is too difficult.”

“No, Papa, play,” the girl insisted, bringing Paul’s hands to the keyboard.

“Yes, Papa, play the song,” agreed Sophie, that troublemaker.

With a sigh of surrender – and one fast dirty look at Sophie -- Macca quickly reproduced the song, tracing the notes he’d watched Michelle play, his excellent ear able to recreate the exact error she had made halfway through, which made Michelle gasp and then giggle, one hand over her mouth as she looked to Sophie. As he finished the song, Paul discovered he was enjoying himself and wasn’t ready to stop. He began playing variations on the little tune, adding first a counterpoint and then a whole new section of his own devising, which became a bridge to a new ending, and then he would start again with an entirely new – but still recognizable -- beginning. He hooted in pure pleasure as he played, all unconsciously, and then looked over to Sophie. “Mama, play also,” he nodded.

“Mama, play also,” Michelle ordered, like a midshipman passing down the command with a frown that would brook no denial.

So, Sophie played, adding small flourishes here and there as she tried to keep up with a beaming Paul, who looked nearly transported with happiness as he played and played, moving from “Le Secrete” to “Le Petite Route” and back, with all sorts of departures in between, stopping only when Sophie noticed the time and -- uttering what Paul took to be a small self-recrimination -- brought an end to it. “We are late! Say goodnight to Papa, baby,” she said. “I must dress you and bring you to Ma Mere in time for supper.”

“But no, Mama,” the child gave an uncharacteristic whine. “I stay with Papa!”

Paul stopped playing, turning the girl, whose face was crumbling in disappointment. “Go with Mama, love,” he said softly. “You are promised to supper.”

Michelle began to prattle her objection in a weird combination of French and English that Paul could not begin to understand, but he got the message, especially when she raised her hands to his cheeks, stroking and pressing them as she begged to stay. Gently he removed her hands, kissing both of them in turn. “You go with Mama now, baby, and I will come later and say goodnight, yes? I will tuck you in?”

“But no, Papa!”

A tear fell. It was the first time he’d seen Michelle cry, and Paul felt nearly crushed to see it. He hated causing it. He felt his heart speed up in a very paternal panic and clutched her to his chest. “No, baby, no. No crying or you will break Daddy's heart." He hugged her, stroking her hair until she grew calmer. “But yes, you must go with Mama, now, all right? Papa will still be here. Be a good girl and I will come later and sing, yes? I will sing you to sleep?”

Michelle pulled away, giving him a brave face. “It is a promise?”

“A promise, yes. Because Papa loves you. _Je t’aime_ , baby.” He pursed his lips in a comical, extreme fashion, and kissed her lips, smiling as Sophie finally took the girl in tow, speaking gently but firmly to her in French. Then she turned to Paul. “I will be back for you, to, Monsieur McCartney, to collect you for supper, too,” she said with a look.

“Is that a promise or a threat,” he laughed as he once more began to pound at the piano, feeling freer than he had in ages. Alone in the room, with only the cat around to witness it, he closed his eyes as he played, murmuring to himself, "thank you, thank you, oh God, it feels so good to play." From nowhere, tears suddenly arose and Paul let them. They were coming, he knew, from a place of pure gratitude. _And joy_. He could play again! He was playing without hesitation, and it was _good_. He was playing, and it felt _safe_. He sniffled and smiled to himself, satisfaction growing with each chord change. Before the keyboard he began to feel reconnected with the deepest and most important part of himself -- his musicianship, which had gone missing for so long, which he feared would never return. For a moment he stopped, fetching a handkerchief. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose and, returning it to his pocket and then simply gazing at the keys, as though looking at a long lost friend. He sighed, hugely, in a very settled way. He could play again, and what a relief it was. _Thank God, thank you God or whoever. Thank you, Mum, if that's you. Thank you, Sophie, Michelle..._ With one more shivery sigh he patted Edward, who had jumped onto the bench beside him, and then began to play a tune that had was intruding on him -- it was a little sad, a little dark, and yet it felt surprisingly good as it rose from that strange place inside him, up through his heart, and into his fingers. 

Meanwhile, as Paul was beginning to rediscover something hopeful and firm inside himself in France, John felt he was losing something of himself in Weybridge. Mimi was gone and it was down to him, Cyn, her mother and Julian, and John felt like if he could not see Paul soon, he would crumble to bits. He’d never thought he would miss his lover as much as he did, _even though we’re not really lovers just now_ ,” he amended the thought. _But we are. We always will be. God, Paul, come home, will you?_

He wasn’t sure why this brief separation was hitting him so hard, making him feel so lost and bereft. They’d vacationed apart before. Paul had gone to Portugal with Jane the previous summer and it hadn’t felt this lonely for him. _Perhaps it’s just all we’ve gone through, nearly losing him like I did_ , he told himself. _And it’s not about the sex…_

That’s what he kept telling himself: that he was missing Paul, only Paul, but the other, more truthful thought would always follow, _Yes, it is the sex, it’s all of it. But the sex… I need him to … I need…_

He needed Paul, _all of Paul_ , as he always had. From their earliest days he had always required all of Paul, and once they became lovers, even so young, ‘all of Paul’ had meant the sex too. The music, the friendship, the soul-mated intimacy that permitted them to converse without words. And the sex. “No”, Paul would sometimes insist on correcting John, especially when Lennon was in one of his cruder moods, “the lovemaking, John. The _lovemaking_. This is not just sex. If that’s all it is…”

Paul would always trail of, and John knew why. If it was only sex, it would never last. They were promiscuous men, the two of them. They’d had more than their share of “just sex” and they knew the emptiness of it, the way it could quickly become something selfish, meaningless, and lonely. “After a while it’s like you’re performing for others, or just going through the motions,” John had said to an interviewer, once, on assurance that it was off the record.

And the band had talked about that truth amongst themselves, many times, most memorably when they’d pulled out the Monopoly game George always packed, and invited a photographer to play with them.

“You’re not going out,” the photographer had asked. “No clubs? No women? I thought they grabbed girls for you after every show.”

Ringo had sighed. “Some nights, it’s just easier to let people think that, you know?”

“Can only fuck so many birds, lad, before winning Park Place feels more exciting,” John had agreed, even as he focused intently on laying out the board. "Some nights, nothing gets me blood movin' better than putting up a few hotels and making Ringo hand over all his bills." He’d tossed a metal shoe to the visitor and motioned for him to join them. “I’m bank!” He announced.

Making a face, Ritchie groaned. “What’s new, you cheater.”

“Well, if you like you can be bank but it always slows down the game when you do maths,” he teased.

“Fuck off, Lennon,” Hazza laughed. “Leave the lad alone. Oi, Paulie, where are you, love?”

Paul had joined them, already in his pajamas and a robe, a glass of brandy in his hand, the metal dog token already on him. “I keep her with me now, because I’m done with you lot hiding Duchess on me.”

“Paul names his tokens,” John said to the photographer. “That’s how much the 'Bull of Liverpool' would rather play on board games instead of on broads.”

“He just can’t afford to pay off anymore bleedin’ kiddie claims, can he,” George asked of the air.

Yes, on some nights Monopoly would become a clear substitute for 'just sex' while on the road -- at least sex with the groupies and waitresses and stewardesses. The boys had been there, done that beyond any of their own expecations.

But of course, John had Paul, and Paul had John, so while the others may have gone without, they never really did. Especially while touring, their desire for each other rarely went unanswered, to the point where yes, Paul needed to remind John that something more than sex was going on between them. It always made John ashamed that he needed the reminder, but it also thrilled him a little, too. Because when Paul had to spell it out for him, had to say “this is more, this is lovemaking, this is love,” John took it as gold, as the something-truly-precious thing that was Macca saying: “ _I love you_ ” – the words he so rarely pronounced – and Lennon would cling to the admonition, recalling it on other days, days when they were tired, or sniping at each other, or just homesick, as always happened by a tour’s end.

So, yeah, if John was being honest, it _was_ the sex, too. The lovemaking – the way Paul would be whatever John needed him to be, often without Lennon needing to say a word, because he knew him so very well.

Macca was a tender lover. He liked tenderness, liked taking things slow and easy, and that was mostly what John liked, too, what he needed, especially if he was feeling vulnerable – if the press were getting too personal, or he was feeling doubts about himself, as was so often the case; doubts about his looks, his voice, his musicianship. Doubts about whether anyone really loved him, or ever could. That was when Paul would take his time with John, going slow and gentle, treating him like a treasured piece of china, as he did [during their time in Paris](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119496), when they’d opened up to each other so beautifully. _[Like a real honeymoon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611301)_ , John thought now as he recalled it, feeling the warmth that always spread through his chest and down, low down into his groin, when those memories surfaced. At those times Paul would linger over John, bring all of his oral fixations into the act, biting and sucking at his neck, teasing his nipples until they were pink and puffy and erect, using his mouth on John’s thighs and cock until Lennon was whining and pleading, babbling incoherently. And then, when he could bear not another second of it, Paul would give him what he was pleading for, would take him, but so carefully – drawing out the preparation while cooing love words at John, praising him as he made his entry, “so good for me, my beautiful boy,” and then whispering into his ear as he moved and John began to groan and keen with pleasure. “My love," Paul would whisper, "my own one, my lad, my beautiful boy…” They would move together, one flesh, Paul always making sure John found his release before finally letting himself go, as John urged him on, because he wanted all of Paul, needed all of him, _“Please, inside me, oh, come inside me, all of you, all of you, for me, inside me…”_

It was in those moments –- the moments where Paul had given all of himself to John, down to his essences -- that John felt that rarest thing, that thing he’d been chasing and trying to catch with both hands all of his life: fullness. Completion. The feeling of being fully cared for, fully understood, fully seen, fully loved. Filled with love.

The only thing that could come close to that sense was Paul, seeing that John needed something else, and giving it to him, like an observant lover, like a good parent. “Like a father, a good father,” John would think before trying to banish the thought before it could grow into something that would feel repellent.

And yet, that happened sometimes. In those less frequent times when John needed someone to put him in his place, when John’s mouth had gone too cruel, or he’d been too careless with the feelings of others – and that could mean anyone from Cyn and Julian to a stranger in a hallway – Paul would take him to task, would be rough with Lennon in precisely the way John needed it to be rough. Macca would close the door to their shared bedroom with a quiet click and then stand with his back against it, his mouth set in a thin, serious line of disapproval, and the wordless message was sent. John had been very bad. He’d been rude, crude, vulgar, ugly. He had been hurtful and selfish, and he wouldn’t be leaving their room until that was addressed.

Oh, and John loved it when he needed correction, loved it in in precisely the way children felt more secure when they knew where the boundaries were and what consequences would follow if they were breached. He loved it when Paul would go quiet on him, speaking in low, husky tones that communicated his serious displeasure with his boy while he ordered him about and demanded obedience. There was one night Macca was so very displeased, he glared at John from the door while removing his own leather belt, and snapping it in two with a menacing look. “Don’t make me use this on you, John,” he had said with a voice that sounded like it was dancing on the edge of chaos, “because your ass will sting like it’s bleeding, and we have a long flight tomorrow…”

And John had pulled a deliberate eyeroll at Paul, daring him -- giving him the sort of adolescent sneer Paul had likely never given his own father – and they were off. Macca managed to catch John and entrap him on his lap, his long legs holding him vicelike. He had torn his slacks from him with one huge pull, and John had had to muffle his cries into a pillow as the strap came down, again and again. And all the while, Paul had been so quiet, which was terrifying in its own thrilling way, because it meant all John could hear was the leather on his skin and his own ragged, breathy heaves into the pillow. Toward the end, Paul would begin to speak, low and deep, and dirty. “This is what you get, John. It’s what a bad boy gets. Do you understand?”

“Y-yesss,” John had spat through another stripe.

“Yes what, boy,” came the deep tone.

“Yes, daddy.”

“I’m _not_ your daddy,” Paul would growl.

“Please…”

“Please what?”

“ _Please be my daddy…_ ”

It was a request Paul needed before he would ever say the word to John, before he would become Daddy. But once he did, he would commit; he would give his boy whatever was needed.

And it would end roughly, usually with Paul taking John from behind, barely preparing him for it and not permitting him to see Paul’s face, which only added to the sense of punishment, only added to John’s own ripe imaginings as Paul went ruthless, rutting fast, deep, and hard, permitting none of the careful softness that usually defined his lovemaking, taunting John for his misbehavior and how it had brought him to this point, “ _and now all you can do is lay there and take it. Take all of it, boy, all of me_ ,” he would growl, thrusting him into the mattress until John – who was usually crying by then – would feel Macca’s hand finally reaching for him, stroking him in time with his unforgiving thrusts, giving him permission to finally let go, and John would feel himself being filled, even as he released with a heart full of gratitude. He would lay there after, groaning in pain, sniffling, the word resonating from his head to his mouth in a small, pathetic whisper, “Daddy… daddy…”

And Paul would murmur into his ear, then, his hands going gentle, rubbing his back, stroking his shoulders as his lips grazed John’s cheek. “My boy, you’re lovely, so lovely. I'm sorry, but you needed that, didn't you. But, be still, now, shush. Let daddy take care of you,” and he would disappear into the bathroom, coming out with warm, wet flannels for cleaning, and a bottle of lotion, for soothing the sting that would keep John looking for soft, cushiony chairs for the better part of a week.

He was hard, now, remembering it, recalling how tone-perfect a lover Paul was, how after punishing him so hard, he would spent the rest of the night holding him, kissing John and reassuring him that he was good, that he was loveable and loved. He wondered, sometimes, how it was for Jane. He’d seen Paul with plenty of birds, of course, but he wondered if Paul was like that with Jane, if he would give the girl whatever she needed, if he ever got rough with her because she needed it rough, too.

But he would never ask. Paul might share his experiences with a groupie or, back in Hamburg, a prostitute – John remembered the first time a prossie had rimmed Paul, and how he had thought it was the most disgusting thing, “suddenly she had her bleedin’ tongue inside me arse and seemed to like it,” he’d said, wrinkling his nose at the memory.

“How did it feel, though?” That had been Pete Best, during their first residency.

“It… weren’t so bad,” Macca had admitted as the room threw pillows at him.

But of a girl he cared for, Paul would share nothing. And John guessed he admired that about him. 

_Still. The sex_. The thought would not abate. He missed Paul. John missed him desperately, all of him...but it was the sex. He’d gone without Paul -- without what he needed so badly -- since the rape, and now his trousers were tented, once again, as they were nearly every day, as the thoughts of Paul in bed came at him as though they were playing on an unstoppable tape loop of memory. He needed it; he needed Paul.

Squeezing himself to get some relief from the hot surge of pure _want_ he was feeling, John began to get angry. He loved Paul, of course he loved him, and yes, the lad had gone through a lot, of course he had. And Lennon wanted to be patient, of course he did. _Still, he’s off in France with that bird, and he thinks her hair is pretty and he’s got one kid with her, what’s to stop him from going at her again. And I’m here, all alone_ – Cyn and Julian seemed to have evaporated from his thinking – _and needy. I need him. I need him inside me. I need to feel him there, telling me he wants to be there, that I’m so good around him. And…and I need to be inside him, too. I need all of him, all of Paul._

Because sometimes, that’s the only other way John could get what he really needed. It didn’t happen nearly as often, but sometimes – usually when something had made John feel embarrassed or humiliated – he needed to become dominant, needed be inside Paul, grabbing at Macca’s glorious thick ass, his hands pressing him so tightly against himself, tight enough to leave marks, lifting Paul’s hips up and controlling all of it, how he moved, how he responded as John buried himself as deep as possible, always front-to-front, always needing to see Paul’s face, to see his beautiful dark eyes slowly lose their focus as he breathed John’s name at him, and John would lower his forehead to Macca’s spilling himself as he worked Paul to completion, and whispering his name, “ _Oh, Paul, Paul, Paul_ ,” as though it were a litany, or an incantation, a way to exorcise his demons. And who knew if that would ever happen again, ever could? Who knew if Paul could ever tolerate being used like that, again? Could John live without that? Right now, he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure at all. 

_I need him, and he’s in France, and I need him now. Selfish tosser_. He didn’t stop to wonder who he was calling selfish as he tugged at himself once more, trying hard not to give in and just start wanking at himself. _Leaving me here, stuck with nothing but my own hand like a bloody teenager. When he’s over there. Fuck!_ He was losing the battle. He leaned over the kitchen sink, as though he were in pain, cursing the rampant fire within him, and trying to find some self-control. _I’m John Lennon. John Lennon doesn’t fuck his hand every day for want of a lover._

He needed to get out. If he stayed there someone – probably his damned Mother-in-Law would walk in on him wringing away at himself, hips thrusting. “Cyn, I’m going to Geo’s” he called out, grabbing his car keys and not caring whether his wife actually heard him or not.

He was driving angry, a little bit angry, barely able to concentrate as his sense of personal grievance and betrayal grew in his mind and John began to argue with himself, as though he had an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. _You need to stop this_ , he thought, _Paul can’t help what's happened to him. You promised you’d be patient. You’re going to fuck this up. He still needs you to be sane._

 _No, fuck him_ , ran the countering voice. _It’s been what, seven weeks now, almost two months! How much time does he need to get past this? Doesn't he even think of what he's putting me through? He’s probably fucking that French bird right now, probably shoving it into her throat, her pussy, her ass…_

_No, he is not. He can’t. He’s so afraid, Oh, Paul. Oh, my Paulie. I'm so selfish._

_He’s not your Paulie, anymore._ The other voice taunted. _If he ever was._

_Stop, stop stop…_

Halfway to Esher, Lennon discovered he was crying, his tears blurring his vision. He pulled over to the side of the road, into a shallow grove of trees, and pressed his head against the steering wheel -- into it -- hoping the pain would shake him out of himself as the tears coursed down his face and he gasped for breath.

“ _Paul, Paul, Paulie… I need you. I need your face. Your pretty eyes. I need your mouth_ ,” he muttered through his teeth, his nose starting to run. “ _I need you to love me. I miss you. Oh Paulie, please. Pretty please…Daddy…my Paul…_ ”

Wresting himself back, he brought his hands to his jeans and, feeling a sense of utter disgust even as he could not stop, he pulled himself out and spat into his hand. _I’ve got to do it. I’ll never come out of this if I don’t. Paul, Paul…_

He worked himself over, his confusion still wracking his brain as he tugged at his cock with a punishing brutality, trying desperately to make it all go away by bringing himself to orgasm. _Fuck. Fuck me. Oh Paul, fuck me. Oh, God. Oh, Lennon you fucking loser._

It wasn’t happening. The harder he tried, the less he could respond; the more he denigrated himself, the less he could feel. After a few moments, he realized that he was losing it, that the thing was shriveling even as he touched it.

“Christ,” he whispered. “God help me. I can’t help myself. What a fucking failure I am. I need…” With a helpless, hopeless sigh, he shut off his thoughts, shoving himself back into his jeans and then foraging through the car until he found a mangled pack of stale cigarettes. He lit one and inhaled deeply, his breath shuddering over the smoke. “Pull yourself together, Lenny,” he said out loud, and for a moment, he paused and listened, as though expecting another voice. There was nothing. “Okay, well, you couldn’t get the job done, old man, but at least there’s only one of you, now. That has to be a good thing, yeah?”

With that, he pulled out his handkerchief – Paul insisted he carry one, that pain in the arse – and wiped his eyes and blew his nose. Feeling a bit more human, John put the car back in gear, and headed back on to the road.

By the time he reached George and Patti’s place, he was nearly done exhaling with the shuddery after-effects of his episode. _Hysteria, that’s all it was_ , he reasoned. _I’ve just been homebound too long. I just need to get high. I need a good trip._

Something niggled at his conscience, then. Paul hated him doing acid, he knew. Hated him doing anything stronger than pot. _But that's Paul’s problem, isn't it? The little boy scout, the goodytwoshoes, the daddy’s boy?_ The voice was coming back with a vengeance, and with it arose again John’s resentful anger. _Macca wouldn’t even try it. He wouldn’t let go. He wouldn’t just trust me! Why won’t he ever trust me, the stubborn bastard!_

John’s head filled with the memory of that past August, and the longest, most difficult fight he and Paul had ever had. It had been the end of their American tour, and they were exhausted. They’d had the summer of their dreams, playing to 56,000 at Shea Stadium in New York, playing to packed arenas and history-making venues all month long, and they’d more than earned their rest. They’d rented a huge house in Los Angeles, in the Laurel Canyon area, and were settling in for a full week with nothing to do but lounge, sunbathe and smoke weed in blissful content. No press. No appointments. 

John had planned a party – an exclusive party, one meant only for the boys and their ramshackle collection of Hollywood “friends”, who were mostly stoner acquaintances they didn’t know well and a few rock and rollers. Peter Fonda, David Crosby, a few others. John never really cared who was around, but with this party, he was adamant that there would be no birds, so that there could be no distractions from his planned purpose, which was to -- finally, now the tour was done, there was no recording imminent and therefore could be no more excuses – get Ringo and Paul to drop acid with him and George, to trip with them.

It had been a source of real annoyance to John that Paul was being so obstinate. He said he didn’t trust it, didn’t want to take risks with a possibly mind-altering substance. To John, that came across as Paul not trusting _him_ , of Paul not liking the way John’s own mind was altered when _he_ was tripping. He couldn’t help but take it personally, especially when Macca wouldn’t even just give John the space to do what he liked. On some level, John needed Paul’s blessing on what he was doing, how much acid he was dropping – if he wasn’t going to use it himself, to at least say, “but of course, you do as you like…” Instead Macca had turned scold on the issue, sometimes lecturing John on the foolishness of risking his mind, sometimes giving him the silent treatment, and sometimes gently, lovingly – and usually after lovemaking -- wondering how John could give up control of the very thing that had brought him everything he had ever wanted, his thoughts, his creativity.

But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Giving up control, it was the thing that John found so freeing, what he believed opened up his creativity, permitting him to breach the fences of his own inhibitions and insecurities, because having everything he had ever wanted, John had discovered to his own chagrin, did nothing to vanquish his demons.

But Macca couldn’t understand it. His own need to be in control at all times, to control his surroundings, it had set him staunchly against LSD, and their battles were epic on the subject. “If you loved me,” John would say, sounding like a teenage boy trying to make a girl, “you’d do it with me.”

“If you loved _me_ ,” Paul would answer, just like a girl in that age-old argument, “you’d stop pestering me about it, because I’m never giving in, John.”

And Paul never had. George Martin was right when he noted once to John that “If Paul feels he is correct about something, he is a boulder and you won’t move him.”

True that. And in hindsight, perhaps Paul was not so foolish in always wanting to control his surroundings – look what had happened to him the one time he’d lost that control, the terrible, bloody assault, the awful, lingering effects. _He’d almost died!_

But that hadn’t been true in August. In August John had counted on Ritchie and Paul finally taking a trip with him and Geo, finally understanding what _they_ understood -- that the world was so small, and the mind so vast. With Paul’s brilliant imagination, John thought, he could probably see the end of the universe. He might even find God, or something.

Even though Ritchie’s commitment to the plan was nervously tepid, and Paul’s response had been a constant blank face and a stony silence, John had, foolishly, allowed himself to become excited about the party, and all the possibilities before them. He couldn't imagine Paul not going along, especially with an entire household urging it.

But Paul had trumped him, had made his own peremptory strike against all of it. On the day of the party, John was stunned to see that Macca had completely disregarded Lennon’s wishes, had invited a blonde bird, that actress, Peggy Lipton, to join them. While the rest of the invitees caroused and got the party started, Paul ignored all of it, swimming with his bikini-clad date and giving her is full attention. At dinner, John, unable to hold back on his resentment – _no, I was furious,_ he thought now – had pointed at Lipton and demanded of Paul, “why is _she_ here?”

Paul had given him the blank expression that John knew meant he was spitting mad, himself. “Her name is Peggy, and I invited her. She’s my guest.”

And that was that. When the party finished supper and went about ingesting sugar cubes laced with acid, Paul took the girl upstairs, content to smoke a bit of pot and fuck yet another bird, _as though he hadn’t had enough of them_ , through the night.

In the morning, John refused to speak to Paul. He was jovial – overly so – with George, who loved having Lenny’s attention, and with Ritchie, who declared he hadn't much like the chemical and would stick with liquor and weed, like Paul, in future.

"Well, that's all right, then, Rich," John had magnanimously allowed. "At least you tried it before deciding," he added, shooting a pointed look at Paul, who refused to respond with so much as a look. To John's thinking, he was completely reasonable in his resentment. At least Ritchie had _tried_ it. He hadn’t just shut John out of his life, like shutting a bedroom door in his face to be with some meaningless lay. Paul… Paul had let him down. They had been all for each other, completely, practically from the day they’d met – what one did, the other did too, because they were soulmates, they were practically one person, of one mind.

And, to John’s sensibility, Paul had broken that, had split them in two. Paul had done something almost unforgivable: he’d purposefully separated himself from John.

He didn’t speak to Paul for the rest of their vacation, and not during the long flight back to England, where usually they would sit together, eat and sleep together. Instead, John spent the flight with George, and Paul stayed with Ritchie, seemingly unaffected by being shut out as they played endless hands of gin rummy.

John had been glacial to Paul, pure ice. And Paul – ‘immovable as a boulder’ as Martin had said – was only blankness in return. He'd been a right stone, neither cold nor warm, never seeking John out for his approval, not even trying to catch Lennon’s eye – to make a connection, to seek out his lover and try to settle things between them. He didn't even try to share a bed with him, pointedly preferring to sleep on a couch, if need be. Instead of giving in to John, Macca read. Macca slept. Macca got high and spoke quietly to friends. Macca got out of the pool and swanned over to the piano, playing for hours on end, marring the finish on the bench and leaving an imprint of his wet ass there. He'd thoughtfully left a pile of cash inside the thing, along with an apologetic note, hoping the owner could have it restored. 

But Macca never sought out John, not by word or look. If an interaction was forced to happen, Paul managed it with polite detachment, right up until they’d hit the tarmac at Jolly Olde England.

That was when John had finally caved. As the band moved to part -- John ready to get into a car in which Cynthia and Jules waited, ready to head back to Weybridge, Paul heading toward the car that would take him to Wimpole Street, and London, and Jane -- John couldn’t stand it. Their anger had meant no time together, no couple time, and he suddenly felt it, felt the loss as their opportunities to be alone would dramatically lessen now they were home. _Idiot_ , he chastised himself. _There will be other chances, he’ll come around. Go to him, now_.

And so, he had left his bags and walked over to where Paul was lingering, unaccountably, at his car – was he waiting for John to make a move? It seemed to John, thinking back, that perhaps he had been. He was watching Lennon as he approached, his face composed in that maddening blankness he’d been managing for as long as they’d been together. John had shuffled up to him, looking a little ashamed, and brought his head close as he extended his hand.

Paul took it, shaking it for the sake of any cameras about.

“I’ll see you, yeah,” John asked. “We’ll talk, get together.”

“Of course,” Paul said, sounding and looking like a prince granting someone clemency, his distance still intact.

“I…” He’d almost said he was sorry, but then John’s shoulders went back. If Macca could be stubborn, well he could be too. Still, he couldn’t help saying what he felt, uttering the truth. “ _I’ve missed you_.”

At that, Paul allowed himself to smile. His eyes took on a tender expression. “And I _you_ , love.”

John licked his lips as he took it in – the light, it was back! It was as though the sun had just come out for him, for him alone. “Yeah, well…alright then? We’re… Paulie, we’re alright?”

“I’d kiss you if a million people weren’t looking, lad,” Paul gave him a megawatt smile, and John shivered, calling up memories of their first kisses, so long ago. _My sweet boy, so hurt,[so banged up, letting me kiss him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/46817458), kissing me back. Yes, I need to kiss him._ “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Now, heading into Geo’s house, John remembered that, and remembered what came after, and he wondered if George was holding.

A sugar cube is all it would take.

***

Back at the vineyard, Paul was bombing sugar cubes into his after-dinner coffee and laughing as Sophie did an inspired impression of Ma Mere lecturing her about how to raise a child. “And all I could think to say was, ‘Mama, if you are so expert a parent, how did you end up with a daughter who is now so shamefully pregnant? Do good mothers raise bad daughters?’”

“That was fresh, Sophie!”

“Well, you did not think Michelle gets everything from you, then, do you? The looks, the music, the long, long legs are yours. From me, she gets that quick tongue.”

Paul laughed again, and reached over the table, and taking Sophie’s hand. “So-phresh,” he said, recalling John’s nickname for her. “She gets many, many things from you. Her manners, her curiosity, her sense of wonder…you’re a very good mama, you know. I can see it. And you’re very kind.”

Sophie blushed, pleased at his assessment, and picked up a Madelaine cookie Remy had brought straight from his ovens. “Did you enjoy the dinner,” she asked.

Paul patted his stomach, indicating how full he was. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were going to fatten me up. And I confess I never expected your so-gifted chef to make something as lowly as bangers and mash.”

“He was appalled,” Sophie gurgled. “I had to promise him two Saturdays off. Ma Mere will be furious, so he will wait until she leaves us.”

“Let her be mad,” Paul laughed. “Honestly, Sophie, I rarely meet someone I feel good about disliking, but forgive me, your mother…”

“I know,” Sophie said, pouring coffee for herself. “I am sorry for her, my dear.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for,” he started, and then recalled something. “You know, when I told her I was of a mind to bring you to London, you and the baby, I meant it.”

“Oh, no, Paul,” Sophie began, shaking her head.

“Why not? You wouldn’t have to work. I’ve just bought a house that’s under renovation -- you and Michelle could live there. London would be wonderful for her, and we could see each other--”

“I thought this house was for you and your lady, Jane, no?” Sophie interrupted him.

Paul was surprised at the reminder, and frowned for only a moment. “I can buy you a different house, a townhouse nearby!”

“I can buy my own house,” Sophie demurred, handing Paul a Madelaine. “Have this, it is so warm and good.”

“But Sophie, you could get away from your mother, get out of this vineyard you've been exiled too, so far away from everything.” His eyes widened as he become more excited with the idea. “You could go to school! I’ve been feeling terrible that you had to give up your schooling because of me! You could go to university, like you planned!”

“As it happens, _mon cher_ , I do go to school,” she smiled coyly.

That shut him up. “You do? But…how? You’re so busy here.”

“I go to school full time each January – I will be starting again in a week – and then also in the summer. Only during the harvests, when we are so busy, do I miss.”

“But…” Paul’s face became lit as a slow smile opened up. “But that is… that’s wonderful, Sophie. I’d thought--”

“You thought I am a girl with no resources and no escape, in need of a rescue.”

“No…no, Sophie,” he reached for her hand again. “No, I thought… well, honestly, I thought I’d ruined your life, all your plans. Are you…what are you studying? Are you doing psychology, as you’d planned.”

Her mouth full, she nodded her head, her eyes shining. “Only this winter and next, and I will have a degree,” she explained after swallowing down her coffee.

“And then what,” Paul tilted his head.

“And then, who knows? Perhaps I will teach. Perhaps I will go on and get more degrees, become a professional counsellor.”

“You would be right brilliant at it, love, the way you have of reading people. I’m so proud of you, Sophie.”

“ _Ma oui,_ ” Sophie gave him a wide smile. “I am proud of me, too!” With a flourish, she opened a bottle of the vineyard’s own brandy and handed a snifter to Paul. “And I am proud of you, too, _mon ami_ ,” she added. “Of all of you boys.”

“Well, it’s been… something,” Paul blushed.

“It has been world-changing,” Sophie said firmly. “But mostly I am proud of _you_.”

“Of me?”

“ _Ou_ i, Paul, of _you_. Because with all of that, and even with whatever it is you carry now in your heart, that makes you ache, and I see it, I also see that you are remained a sweet boy.” She touched her glass to his, and looked at him with open affection. “A sweet man, and a sweet, loving papa. So many who have the wealth and the fame, and the power that comes along, they lose themselves. But you are still the very boy I knew – courteous, gentle, easily hurt but so, so strong.”

Feeling both embarrassed by Sophie’s praise and quite unworthy of it, Paul averted his gaze, looking down into his snifter as he rolled it between his hands, warming the liquor and releasing its bouquet. He took a big sniff of it, and finally looked up again, still shaken by the purity of the girl’s look. As though he could ever deserve such a look, could ever be pure again. He looked away once more.

 _I need to go home, he thought to himself. I need to get back to work and try to fix my life. I need to find me, be me again. I need to see my family_. He recalled John’s voice on the phone that morning, “and then you come home?” _So needy, so purely needed by John. And that's another kind of purity,_ he considered.

Hearing a very gallic little sniff from across the table he looked at Sophie, who was very relaxed, resting her chin in her hand and shaking her head at him, a smile teasing at her lips. “Truly, though, if I cannot hold a man’s attention just between the coffee and the brandy, I must get out more…”

Paul leaned forward, too, copying her movement, crossing his legs and resting his chin in his hand. “Do you not get out enough, then? What about… you know…”

“What?”

He suddenly realized he was flirting, actually _flirting_ , as though his flirting switch had blown a fuse and was miraculously back on line. If felt good. It felt light, and natural, and -- with Sophie -– it felt completely safe. “You know…” he teased. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Sophie shook her head ‘no’ but her answer wasn’t clear. Did she mean no, she wasn’t seeing anyone, or that no, she wasn’t going to answer. _Maybe that's why she doesn't want to come to London._ But she seemed to be flirting back, smiling as she reached out a hand. “Give me a cigarette,” she asked and it sounded like a purr to Paul’s ears. “And then let us go put the baby to bed, _oui?”_

The truth was, Sophie wasn’t much of a smoker, so her request had startled Paul, but they had smoked companionably, teasing each other in all the ways that were familiar and welcome, ever since those early days. Still, as they climbed the back staircase to reach Michelle’s room (“This way we will walk into no surprise busybodies,” she had said), the young woman was sniffing at her fingers and wrinkling her nose. “I do not understand how on you or Maxime or Simone I can tolerate the smell, but on my own hands, no! I must wash before I see Michelle. By now she is bathed and dressed for sleep.”

She waved Paul toward a doorway and excused herself to the washroom, and Paul stood there a moment, unsure what to do. He didn’t want to interrupt while the child was being attended to by… whomever? But he could hear her singing, her piping little voice coming through the thin door. He decided to knock and announce himself. “ _Ma petite?_ It’s Papa, may I come in?”

He heard a loud, joyful gasp and little hands clapping. “Papa come!”

At her command he opened the door and found Michelle, freshly bathed and wearing a nightgown and slippers twirling upon her bed. From the area of her closet Simone was emerging. “She is a very wild girl tonight,” her aunt said in a firm, yet clearly amused voice.

“Oh, what did she do,” Paul asked as he picked up his little one and gave her a sound kiss on the cheek.

“Only refused to eat her vegetable and then jumped down from the dinner table to look for her Papa, until we caught her.”

“You did not eat your vegetables,” he frowned at Michelle. “What were they?”

“ _Ugh,_ ” Michelle answered the sound seeming to come from deep in her throat. “Dey _ugh_.”

“Green beans and also carrots, which she did eat,” Simone smiled. “But you must eat the green, too,” she waggled a finger in their direction.

“Green beans, _ugh_ ,” Paul murmured into Michelle’s ear, making a song of it. “Also, Brussel sprouts, _ugh_. Cabbages, _ugh_. Broccoli, _ugh_. No greens for us! _Ugh, ugh_!” The girl was chortling at Papa’s adult wickedness when Sophie came into the room.

“But what is Papa telling you,” she seemed quite seriously annoyed. “Papa,” she slapped Paul lightly on his arm, “do not be saying this to the girl, or she will repeat it!”

“ _Oui_ , to everyone, and then she will say her Papa says so,” Simone shook her head, sighing in Sophie’s direction as she made her exit. “All I am saying is he is making a monster, yes?”

“Grrrrrr, monster,” Paul made a claw and teased his daughter with it. “Are you a monster, baby?”

“Garrrrr,” the monster replied.

“And now, we are no more monsters,” Sophie said, taking her daughter from his arms and turning down the bedcovers. “We will not tempt bad dreams.”

“Garrrrr,” Michelle made a claw at her mother’s face, and got an admonishing look for her effort. “No more, my dear, and Papa is going to stop now, too, is he not?” Her expression told Paul he had better agree.

“Yes, indeed. Because we don't want to make a monster of Mama, do we? So, tonight, I am going to teach you a new song, _oui_ , Michelle?”

“What is it,” she tried to stifle a yawn, picking at her fingers as her mother began to tuck her in.

 _She picks her fingers, just like me_ , Paul noticed. He couldn’t stop his smile, even as he gently took one hand into his own, to distract her away from the habit.

“It is a song from Ireland, and you must learn it, and then sing it very loud, every day, because your grandmother will love to hear it,” he gave a devilish smile to Sophie, who snorted and covered her mouth with a soft, “Oh, no, Paul, you are bad.”

“Oh yes,” he said, never taking his eyes off of his daughter. “Now, listen, baby,” and he began to sing.

When Irish eyes are smiling

Sure it’s like the morn in spring,

In the lilt of Irish laughter,

You can hear the angels sing…”

They’d managed two go-rounds of it before Michelle, exhausted from a full day of company and her own father’s hijinks, drifted off to sleep, her hand tightly clutching Paul’s, while her parents gazed at each other from either side of her bed, their smiles huge.

“Should I say goodnight to your family,” Paul asked as he was putting on his coat. “You’ll have to walk me out, love, you know this house confuses me.”

“No, do not,” Sophie said, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm. “Too many strangers about, and you need not to deal with Ma Mere again, today.” She looked up at him. “But did you enjoy?”

“I did, he nodded, smiling back. “I did, Sophie. All of it – playing the piano with you both, the supper…even the little tussle with your mother. I enjoyed every bit of it.” He turned to her as they reached the front door. “I don’t know why I stayed away so long. I guess I was afraid.”

“You were young, and very busy,” Sophie answered.

“And _afraid_. But I forgot that with you, there is nothing scary, not even a baby.”

“Is this where I make like so?” She made a claw at his face. “Garrrr!”

Paul laughed, delighted at her joke, at the fleetness of her mind. Still smiling, he tucked an errant strand of hair back behind her ear. “Just like the old days,” he said when she seemed surprised.

“Yes…” She leaned back against the door. “It was very, very bad of you to teach her that song, you know," she couldn't help smiling at his cheekiness. "You are a passive-aggressive, yes? And tomorrow you leave.”

“But late,” he said, propping himself up with one arm as he leaned down to talk as softly as she.

“Michelle will be so, so sad for her papa to leave.”

"Only Michelle, then?" His flirt fuse was back, and he chuckled as Sophie blushed and wagged a finger in his face. "You are feeling all, what is it... 'cock-a-hoop' is that the phrase?. You are happy. I am glad."

"I am," Paul agreed, sounding surprised. "Tonight, I am happy."

"And I am glad," Sophie repeated. "But tomorrow will be sad, a little." 

“Yes,” he repeated, recalling Michelle's first tears, earlier that evening. “But I will come back, and I will tell her that. I will make a promise.” He stood straight, suddenly having an idea. “Why don’t you bring her down to the cabin early tomorrow, and we’ll make a day of it? We’ll cook up something, a late lunch or something, yeah? You and me. We’ll spend the day together, have a meal just the three of us, like a family, how does that sound?”

“You can cook,” Sophie blinked at him, smiling again as she asked.

“I can… chop things,” Paul allowed. “And yes, I can make eggs.”

“Eggs!” Sophie pooh-poohed. “I know what we will eat, and so yes, tomorrow the baby and I will come early, _oui_? Watch you pack, share a little meal? Michelle will like that.”

“Michelle will boss me around the whole day, like the little captain she is.”

“Yes, that is unfortunate true.”

“No, it’s not unfortunate,” Paul said, his eyes crinkling as he smiled down at Sophie and took her hands. “It’s all good things, here, Sophie.” 

“I am happy to hear you say.” Her voice felt like the softest caress on his face, and for a moment, Paul simply stared at her, feeling like he should be doing something, or saying something to make the moment feel right, to feel complete, but he had no idea what that might be.

“Tomorrow is tomorrow,” Sophie touched his cheek, her voice still so whispery soft. “For now, _mon ami_ , let us say goodnight, yes?” Standing on tiptoe, she kissed first is left cheek, then his right, and then opened the door.

Paul stepped through and then turned to face her, lowering his head to kiss Sophie in the same way, one kiss, then another, the second lingering just a tad longer than either of them expected.

“Goodnight, Sophie, love.”

Sophie watched as he shoved his hands deeply into his pockets against the frosty, blue-tinged night, only closing the door when she could no longer see him.


	45. John visits George for a Score

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feeling increasingly alone and fearful, John continues his slide, making a point of scoring some acid off of George. He's high and about to head into London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once a short chapter, meant to be a bit of a bridge. John sounds here like he's doing better than he actually is. Next chapter, as Paul has one last delightful day in France before heading flying back to England, John will be the main focus, and he'll be having a few very very bad days, indeed.

George Harrison only opened the door to his Esher home because he saw Lennon’s car in the driveway. He was in a cranky mood, hungry but too hung over to properly make a meal, and Patti had gone out somewhere with friends. Anyone else pulling into the driveway could have rung the bell or banged on the door til they bled, for all George cared. He didn’t mean to answer.

But when he’d peered out the window from his bedroom, it was John’s car he saw, so admitted he was, but George wasn’t liking the look of him as he shot a glace sideways. He looked squirrely-like, sniffly and red-eyed. If he didn’t know better, he’d say John had been huffing something. Or crying.

“Lo, John, come on in, then.”

John closed the door behind him wearing a too-wide grin on his face. “Happy almost New Year’s, Hazza.”

“Oh, Christ, is that almost here?” Geo scratched his head, then tying his dressing gown more securely around his waist and heading toward the kitchen. “Game for a cuppa?”

“Aye, I could use one, thanks. Where’s Pats?”

“Shoppin’ I think. Can’t imagine what there is left to buy, though.”

“Aye, it’s a strange thing, that, innit? We’ve got everything. And yet didn’t I go and buy a whole consignment of chocolates last month, as though a box would never be enough.”

George put the kettle on and brought mugs down, nodding John into a seat. “Comes of bein’ poor, I think. Or maybe just from comin’ up in Liverpool.”

John shrugged, helping the clearly not-quite-with-it Harrison put out napkins and spoons. “I wasn’t poor,” John said.

“Neither was I. Not like Ritchie, anyway. Paul’s family were a little poor. But we all pretty much had what we needed, didn’t we? I guess that’s not the kind of poor I meant.”

John lit a cigarette and held the match while George took a light as well. “How many kinds of poor are there, then?”

George exhaled a huge plume of smoke and settled back into his chair, his eyes closed. “Poverty of spirit,” he said. “Liddypool was always such a fuckin’ dank, dark place. Always rainin’, everyone choked by… conventions. Churches, and societies and unions and… that whole scene.”

“Aye, I take yer meaning,” John nodded. “Whatever the reality was, it all felt so bleedin’ hopeless.”

“I’m so glad we got out,” George said, groaning as the kettle went off, forcing him to stand once more. “Still…” he seemed to be thinking outloud as he found a potholder and brought the boiling water to the table. “If you think about it, I’d really no cause to feel that way. Had me mum and dad, unlike the rest of you. A whole family, employed ‘n all. Had all I wanted. Why’d I _feel_ so poor?”

“It’s like you said, innit,” John held out his cup. “Whatsits, _conventionality_. We were all expected to buckle down, take whatever job we got, spend a few quid a week at the pub, settle down and settle in, and grow old and die there, unseen, unsung.”

Just thinking about it was having a lowering effect on the men, and both sighed as they added too much sugar to their tea and stirred and stirred in silence.

“Thank God for Macca,” George mused, getting John’s attention.

“Whatsay? What for, then? Runnin’ off to France at Christmas?”

“Ah, yer still mad about that, are you,” George gave one of his tight-lipped little smiles. “Have you not heard from him, then?”

“Aye, I have. He’s…”John slurped at his tea a bit, burning his tongue and cursing for it. “He’s alright. Comin’ home soon.”

“Getting’ on with that little girl of his?”

“Seems like he and Sophie are getting’ along just fine.” Lennon was beginning to sound like George’s head felt.

“Meant him and the baby, you know. But good. I liked Sophie. A good girl.”

“Aye,” John allowed. “And he sounds besotted with the little one.”

“Well, Paul and a kid. When is that ever anything but a mutual love affair, yeah?”

His mate resembled Scrooge in his hunched over shrug. “Whatdja mean, then, ‘thank God for Macca’ – what’s that to do with anything.”

George made one of those Harrison noises, a low murmur of nothing that meant he was gearing up to say more words than usual. “Just you know, I guess I was rememberin’ sittin’ outside the surgery, that night. Occurred to me, then that if not for Paulie, we’d not be Beatles would we? T’was him figured out how to put us all together and get us tamed. I’d be running a guitar repair shop or drivin’ a bus or somethin’. You’d…”

“Probably be in jail.”

“Aye, or dead,” Hazza smiled, offering a chocolate biscuit, which was accepted with a shake of the head.

“Aye, sliced to ribbons in some back alley after pickin’ one too many fights.”

“Yer veins lettin’ out more beer than blood…”

That brought a laugh from Lennon, who tamped out his ciggie and drank down his tea. “Fuckin’ loser, I was. Still am.”

“And look at us now,” George teased. “Me in me rattiest robe, hair askew wonderin’ if it’s late enough in the day to tongue together a blunt. You…” He looked directly at John for a moment, as though studying him. “Well, pardon me for it, John, but you look all to pieces. What have you been doin’ with yourself?”

“Well, I say let’s find some papers and have ourselves a roll or two, yeah? There must be a gloaming happening, somewhere.”

A half hour or so later, both men were sprawled out on opposite ends of a sofa, feeling considerably more relaxed. “They should market this shit for a bad head, you know,” George said lazily. Better hangover relief than the hair of the dog.”

“Never understood that witchery,” John said, shaking his head. “Take the hair of the dog that bit you…” he mused. “A remedy right out of some Scot’s witch’s brew book, meant to prevent rabies. ‘Ooch aye, laddie, foamin’ at the mouth, are ye? Bring me the hair of the dog what bit you, then… we’ll fix you up…”

“Is that what that’s from?” George was forever impressed with John’s store of trivia.

“Sure,” Lennon said, slipping off the couch. He had no idea if anything he was saying might be remotely true. “Almost every stupid sayin’ we don’t think about has some tie to the witches and weird sisters, you know.” He began rolling another joint, sucking at his teeth a bit and smiling at Geo as though letting him in on a secret. “When we was kids, you know, [Paulie got jumped by some big bastards](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182481/chapters/45597766) in the city. Beat him up right bloody…”

“Cor, when did that happen?”

“Can’t remember.” He remembered perfectly, but had also promised utter secrecy to the then sixteen-year-old McCartney, and even now, he was wishing the grass hadn’t so loosened up his mouth. “But anyway, I was meaning his auntie. She came over with some witchy homebrewed salve – oil and leaves and garlic and bits of onion and herbs.”

“Ew, what a soup?”

“No, not a soup, ye fool. She was dabbin’ it all over him, ‘to move the blood and stave off infection,’ as she said. He stank to high heaven.”

“But did it work?”

John shrugged, hoping to hop off the subject. “He’s here, so it must have worked. Hey, Joey, do you mind if I roll a couple for meself, to take away? I’m out. My house is like a vicarage right now, nothing but scotch, old-lady liniments, and baby powder.”

George shrugged and raised one hand in a move that equated to a non-verbal ‘help yourself.’ His heavy brows were knitted together in a familiar frown. “How come Paulie never told me about that?”

“About what,” Lennon said, concentrating now on his personal construction project.

“Bein’ jumped. Beaten, an’ all. He should have told me, we were best mates.”

 _Probably wanted to forget it_ , John thought, annoyed with himself for opening an old wound of George's -- the lad's sense that Paul's regard for him was lightly but forever altered, once John showed up in their lives. _I wish I had forgotten it, rather than getting’ stalled on this subject. And now I've hurt George. God, I am such a fucking tool._ “Expect he didn’t want to be fussed over,” he tried.

That worked. “Aye, that’s likely it. That’s Paulie.” 

“Mmm,” John agreed, licking the end of a roll, and then mouthing the whole thing before finding another paper. He worked silently for a moment, and then pursed his lips, feeling close to tears. About everything, his whole life. “I really miss him, Georgie.”

“That why you’re here, innit,” Harrison acknowledged with just a shade of a bite to his tone, “Paulie’s gone and so you’ll settle for my company?” When he saw the look on John’s face, woe-begotten and vulnerable, he wanted to kick himself. It had been an honest feeling, and there was truth behind it, he knew. But he could see that John in no shape for a little truth, just now. He was looking way too soft to hear it. _We all know exactly how to hurt each other_ , he thought, _and me and Johnny are the fastest to flick each other when we get a chance_. _And in the end it's all just jealousy. Freaking Paul. Freaking love_. “Sorry,” George offered. “I know you miss him. We all do, but you the most.” He tried to buoy up his mate with a lopsided grin. “He’ll be home soon, though, yeah?”

“Yeah…”

George watched as John lost all interest in rolling any more for himself. He sat crosslegged, shoulders limp, eyes on the floor, a little puddle of misery. George decided to join him there. He busied himself with the grass, picking up where John had left off.

“You’re not frettin’ about him not comin’ back are you? You know he’s going to come back.”

“I know…”

“Well, what’s wrong then, John? Why are you so…”

“I miss him.”

“As you said.”

“No, just…Georgie, you don't understand. I feel like... like all I am is a big balloon, and all the air's been sucked outta me. Like I'm just layin' here, flat, waiting for Paulie to come and breathe life into me again."

"Cor." George met that with a respectful silence, not sure how to answer that. "But John, you're your own man. You've always been strong."

"Forceful," John said, his voice low. "I made a lot of noise for seventeen years, and made sure I was seen. But I didn't..." He sighed. "I only started living when Paul came. And I only started wantin' to live after we became...Oh, hell, Georgie, I miss the way we were. It was never easy but it felt easy compared to how it is now. Him not able to…be like he was.”

“You mean… with you,” George tried to be delicate about something he really had no familiarity with. Hell, he’d only just really wrapped his head around Lennon/McCartney, _the couple_.

“With me…with Jane, I know, too. Even with himself. What if they’ve killed that part of him, Georgie?”

“His...what, the randy, sexy part?” He really was trying to be careful.

“No. _Yes_. No, not _just_ the sex part. The whole thing, his whole… _yes_ , the sex parts. Hell, even just the kissing parts, the. All if it. Yes, and the sex parts, I guess. He’s… he’s so afraid. Of everything.”

“Can’t really blame him, can you, though?” George finished a stick and began rolling yet another, creating a happy little pile meant for John to take away with him. Hopefully soon, because this visit felt like it was becoming the equivalent of a mine field in a sad, sad country running low on essentials. “I think he’s pretty bold, goin’ off to France. I know if it were me been through all that, I’d be too terrified to leave my flat, much less the country. And I’d likely not feel able to play around in bed, for a while.” He decided to light up, taking a big hit and passing it over as he began rolling again in earnest.

“I suppose not,” Lennon mused. “But I miss him. I miss us. I miss… all the playin’ around in bed.”

“Still can’t believe we missed it all that time,” Geo was shaking his head, still marveling at seven year’s of missed clues. “Ritchie’d wondered sometimes but I never did, you know. Told him he was daft.”

“Ritchie always was more observant.”

George made a face. It might be true, but he didn’t have to like hearing it.

John took two hits, watching George’s tidy, tight rolls. “Geo, you wouldn’t have any acid about, would you?”

“I do,” Hazza nodded. “You’d rather do that?”

“N-no,” he sounded uncertain. “Maybe not now. For later.”

George shook his head. “You know I never like you doin’ that at home, with young Jules and all. It’s not a family activity, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, thank you, Mother, I’ll ring the public safety council with that sage bit of advice. You’ll win a… thingy. Something.”

Harrison had a deep-chested chuckle and it emerged now. “Ah, yer too stoned just now. It’d be a waste, it would. But you know…later. We’ll eat something and then have a round. Patti will be home. She can watch.”

Patti, having tripped the night she and George, John and Cynthia had had the acid slipped into their after-dinner coffees – by their own dentist, no less – had never wanted to use again, but she didn’t mind keeping an eye on George and John when they did, just in case things went bad, as had happened once or twice.

“Nah, nah,” John struggled to hoist himself back on to the couch. “I can’t stay. Just slip me a little cube, would you, for later? Headin’ into London.”

“Oh, what for? George took the half dozen reefers he’d assembled and shoved them into a nearly empty pack of cigarettes, pushing them in John’s direction.

“Stoppin’ by Brian’s and then lookin’ in on Paul’s flat,” John explained. “Promised I’d water the plants, and put in fresh milk an’ all, while he’s away.”

“He’s not back for a few days though, aye?”

“That red leafed thing he likes – the ‘red kiss’ or whatever it is – it’ll be dead by then. And the violets. You know how he is with plants.”

“Aye, if they died Paulie’d have your ass for it.”

“If _only…_ ” John murmured to himself and then blushed as he realized he’d said it out loud. He looked at Hazza, whose lips were drawn into a thin line while his face burned scarlet. “ _Oh, fuck me…_ ”

George burst out laughing. “Or, if only he _would_ , aye?”

And at that, John joined him, falling into a full-on belly laugh and tumbling sideways. “Aye, _if only!_ And five ways to Sunday, too!” _Ah fuck_ , he thought behind the giggles as he watched Geo dig through his stash for a small bag holding just one precious cube of sugar, a pink dot at its center. _Just, come home, Paul. I'm not gonna last…_


	46. Heavy Things in Two Cities, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul is asking questions, and scaring the hell out of Sophie.  
> John is starting to scare himself.  
> A deep look into a few fraught moments in the relationship of John Lennon and Paul McCartney  
> And a look into Paul's legitimate fears for Michelle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter was getting long, and a bit complicated, so it is given in two parts. Here is Part I.

“Thank you, love,” Paul murmured to Sophie as she handed him a glass of white wine. He was sitting up, his long legs sprawled out across the cabin’s sofa, Michelle fast asleep in his arms. The girl was drooling a bit on Paul’s shoulders, and he moved very carefully to drink. “How did I not know that children’s heads are so heavy, when they sleep,” he pretended to complain. Seeing Sophie focusing his camera, he smiled, raising the wine glass a bit as she snapped away.

“You’ll want a copy of that one.”

“But of course. A perfect ‘Happy New Year’ photo,” Sophie smiled, wandering around the couch as she snapped a few more. “And anyone who sees these pictures will say, ‘but this is a McCartney child, no? The same lips like cupid’s bow. The same hair like ink, and long lashes.”

“Her mother has dark, pretty hair, too!”

“But not eyes like those,” Sophie argued. “The rosebud mouth. And the little…how you say, the _pit_ in the chin.

“More of a _cleft_ , love, but yeah, she’s got that too.”

By now the young woman was crouched at the edge of the sofa where he was sitting while Michelle drooled away. She put her arms around both of them holding the camera at arm’s length, trying for a group shot.

“No, your arms are too short, Sophie, wait.” Paul handed her his glass and then stretched his own arm out. “We’ll have to hope it’s in focus,” he said, blinding them both with the flash. “As our daughter would say, _‘eh, voila’_!” He handed back the camera and retrieved his wine, sorry that he wasn’t getting a picture, now, of Sophie kissing Michelle’s brow so lightly. 

“She is making soaked, your shoulder,” the girl observed.

“That’s fine,” Paul’s voice sounded as content as he felt at the moment, lulled by a fine meal they’d cooked together, a few robust hours running about with his daughter, and now a relaxed hour before the comforting warmth of the woodstove. He watched Sophie move to a chair and shook his head offering a sly grin, “No, sit with us, Mama!”

“I do not wish to disturb--” she began.

“Don’t be silly, you’re small,” Paul reassured her as he scooted more deeply into the cushions, making room for Sophie to sit with her own legs stretched out as well. “Any besides, if she moves, her big, round, five-ton head will fall on you, now. We can share the load!”

“ _Oof,_ ” Sophie chuckled, unfolding the Aran blanket she had left at the cabin in case Paul would doze before the fire. She spread it over their legs. “Now, we are so-cozy, yes?”

“Lovely.”

“ _Oui._ But, one hour and a half, and then we must pack you off to your own papa.”

“She’s not going to like it,” Paul worried, nuzzling his daughter’s soft cheek.

Sophie said nothing, only shrugging as she settled against Paul’s other shoulder, looking at their child, who – overtired thanks to her father’s roughhousing – had had a tearful little meltdown when she had spied his luggage, opened but neatly packed on his bed, and had tried to empty it. “No, Papa must stay,” the little girl had insisted, throwing Theodore and some shirts on the floor. From there things had gotten... loud. It was only when Paul had taken her into a tight hug and cuddled with her on the couch, crooning softly into her ear, that Michelle had calmed down, soon drifting into an exhausted rest.

“She will awaken refreshed, more reasonable, I think,” Sophie said. “Always, she does.”

“Does she still nap every day?” Paul was curious.

“ _Mai, oui_ , every day. If not, if she gets over-tired and then cannot sleep, it becomes a hard day and night.”

“Ah, she takes after me, then, I’m sorry to say,” Paul chuckled, giving Sophie an apologetic look. “I needed naps until I was seven years old, you know. My little brother Mike was already done with them, and there I’d be every day after school, cranky and out of my head until I’d slept a little.”

“ _Raiment_? But you woke up happy, yes?”

“I suppose only my mother could answer that,” he mused. “I’m sure _I_ thought was happy, but my aunties say I was a handful.” He bit his lip and turned as best he could to face Sophie, showing a look of concern. “Her heart’s alright, isn’t it?”

“But yes,” she frowned in surprise. “She is very healthy.”

“Yes, but, only…” He noted Sophie’s furrowed brow and tried to relax his own. “Probably it’s nothing, but next time she has a check-up ask the doctor to really listen for a murmur, okay? Would you, please?”

“Why, yes, alright, if you like. But…may I ask...”

“I have one, you know. A heart murmur.” He finished drinking his wine and, not sure what to do with the empty glass, simply laid it on his lap. “Had a rheumatic fever when I was a kid, and likely that’s why it’s such a loud one, but my mum said she always thought I’d already had a… a _little_ one, a mild one,” he emphasized. “She thought the fever just made it, well, _louder_. More noticeable.”

“But… this has not stopped you from your life, no?” Sophie was not sure what to think. Her whole face radiated concern.

“Well,” Paul shrugged. “I was never much of an athlete anyway – although I’m a strong swimmer – but the murmur meant I couldn’t run or ski in our movies.” He smiled at the adorable line of concern line that formed between the girl’s questioning eyes, and brushed it with a finger. “When you make a film, you see – or even do a concert tour – they take out insurance, and you have to get checked out. Apparently, my heart murmur was loud enough that they’d only insure the films if I wasn’t doing anything too physical. That’s why you see the lads running in the opening scenes of the first movie, while I’m sittin’ with the old man. Or why I’m sitting and not dancing with the others in the club scene.”

“But,” Sophie’s eyes narrowed as she remembered back. “You run a _little_ , with the police? And in the field, when ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’? You jump!”

“I ran a _little_ , exactly, with the police scene – that was a few short takes, nothing extended. And a _little_ in the field, too. I actually do jump well, but when you see me from the back, it’s usually a double.”

Sophie covered her mouth as she chucked, as though scandalized. “There cannot be two of you, Paul!”

“God help us if there were,” he laughed. “No, we all had doubles for some scenes, for stunts, you know, anything that might get us hurt. The skiing scenes in _Help!_ too. Those were as much doubles as ourselves. Insurance, again.”

“But for you, also, because of your heart sounds?”

He nodded ruefully. “Aye, my heart sounds.” Feeling his arm going numb from being scrunched between them, he moved it above Sophie’s shoulders, but careful not to embrace her. “So, you’ll have the doctor’s listen, won’t you? Make sure our girl is as strong as she is loud?”

“Of course,” Sophie promised. “I will be sure.”

“Thank you,” he said softly, nudging her head with his own. After doing a bit of interior battle with himself, he took a breath and made one more request, trying to sound as causal as he could. “You should maybe get her checked for porphyria while you’re at it.”

Sophie raised her head, the little line between her eyes appearing again. “Porphor? What is _this_ , now?

“It’s just a little…disease, I guess. About enzymes or something. It’s hereditary. Musta caught me from ‘way back because no one else in the family, now, has it.”

Seeing the look of horror dawning on Sophie’s face, one hand coming to her mouth in concern, he rushed to reassure her. “It’s not awful,” he said. “Turns yer pee purple, you know. And can make your guts churn a bit. And you know…I’m losin’ a bit of hair from the anxiety, because it can do that, you know, make you anxious. But it’s alright.”

“Why do I not feel convinced,” Sophie’s brow went up. “You are telling me our daughter might have purple pee.”

“Only in the sunlight,” he tried to sound merry. “John calls me his ‘princes—’ he calls me ‘prince’, or ‘princling’, sometimes, when it happens. Says I was born to the purple.”

“So, I should tell Michelle she is a princess if she has purple urine and her hair starts to fall away?”

“No, no! She probably does not have it, anyway,” Paul tried to reassure her. He fit his arm more closely to her, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “And she won’t lose her hair. Me own’s thinning a bit, aye, but that just…I’ve, you know…I’ve had a rough year.” He rushed to take the focus off himself. “And don’t let her get too much sun, and she’ll be fine.” Paul reassured her.

“But why,” Sophie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “She loves to be outdoors.”

“Yes, and she should. It’s good for her. But… photosensitivity, yeah? She might burn easily. Might get blisters on her face.”

“No, but Paul, you are horrible teasing, now.” Sophie objected, her naturally gentle voice taking on an edge as it rose. “Our daughter is not going to pee purple and have pocky face.”

“Shh, shush, love. You’re going to wake her.” Paul pulled Sophie nearer, kissing her forehead, feeling awful for bringing it up. “Don’t you worry, now. Like I said, she probably doesn’t have it. No purple pee, and she won’t be pocky. Look at how beautiful she is, aye? A bonny queen?”

He heard Sophie, that most composed of creatures, try to hide a sniffle as she reached a hand out and stroked the little one’s cheek, and his heart broke a little. “Sophie, really, love…I’m sorry. She’s probably fine.” The young woman tilted her head to look up at him, her dark eyes begging him to make it so – to make his last words the truest ones. But he could not. Hugging her close, he kissed her forehead in precisely the way he had kissed their daughter’s and murmured consoling words into her ear, rubbing her arm a little. “Come on, now, lovie, don’t be so worried…she’s a grand, strong girl isn’t she? With your good genes alongside my peasant ones, aye? And we’ll be fine, then…”

Mere minutes later, all three of them were asleep, warmed and self-consoled, and snuggled under the weight of Irish wool and the mysteries of all the ways life can pull you down and love can raise you up.

***

For John Lennon, slipping his key into Paul’s Belgravian flat, a love to raise him up was precisely what he needed, and did not have. It was a love spelled P-A-U-L and he craved his lover’s presence so badly he felt itchy with it. He’d left George’s place with a half dozen joints in his breast pocket and a sugar cube laced with acid packed safely along with it, and had driven slowly into London, arriving at Brian’s house (where he stopped only because he'd told George he would) just as the manager was headed out in the company of an attractive young man. “Anything you need, John,” Eppy had asked, taking in Lennon’s disheveled appearance as he locked his front door.

“No, just wanted to check in, see if you were well,” John said, one foot on the step, giving Brian’s companion the once-over with a knowing grin. “I’m headed to Paul’s place and wondered if you wanted me to drop anything off?”

“Oh, is Paul back already,” Epstein sounded surprised. “I’d not expected him ‘til after the new year. I don’t think I’ve anything here for him.”

“Nay that’s fine then. I’m just being the ever-conscientious errand boy, you know, headin’ there to see to the plants and what-all. I’ve promised.” He felt awkward, now, knowing he was holding up his manager for no good reason. “Erm… you’ve not heard from him, have you?”

Brian shook his head. “Not at all, but then I’d not expected to. Haven’t you talked to him?”

“Oh, aye, aye. Couple days ago. He’s doin’ well. I think the trip has done him good.” He stepped away. “Have a good evenin’, then Bri--”

“We’ll see you on new year’s, won’t we? With the Martinses?”

“May do,” John said tersely, promising nothing. “I’m off, now…”

And here he was in Paul’s flat, locking the door behind him and looking about, feeling almost furtive, as though he’d invaded a stranger’s house. Everything looked just a tiny bit unfamiliar, the profound quiet and emptiness making his every movement, even hanging up the coat, seem noisy and intrusive.

Oddly, John felt like he was somehow being watched.

He’d gone out of his way to tell the truth about what he was up to, here – why he’d needed to stop in, when Paul was away. He’d picked up two bottles of fresh milk, and a bag of apples on the way, and now he went into the kitchen and added them to the fridge, dumping the old half-bottle of milk into the sink. He took out a beer, for himself, and then sat at the table, pulling the sugar bowl to himself.

He hadn’t lied to Georgie. The sugar cube in his pocket, it wouldn’t be consumed while he was alone, would it? There would be a tripsitter available, wouldn’t there? Himself, after all.

He counted the cubes in the bowl: twenty-three. He’d add his own to the number, _and bob’s your uncle, it’s done, innit?_

But not yet. He might want a bit of tea later, and wouldn’t want to be forgetful and use it up all unintentional-like.

Downing half the beer in one go, Lennon lit a ciggie and paced his way through the apartment. The piano. _Unused, what a waste._ It was beginning to dawn on him that maybe Paulie was beyond music, anymore, and that thought, he realized, broke his heart more than anything else. _If Paul has no more music, nor have I_ , he thought. _He’s been my bloody song all this time_.

He sat down and began to noodle, his ciggie between his teeth, plunking out his favorite chord progressions, falling into his first ballad.

If I give my heart to you  
I must be sure,  
from the very start  
That you  
would love me  
More than her…

Written for Paul, only for Paul. _Maybe there’s nothing I’ve written that hasn’t been for Paul_.

If I trust in you  
Oh please  
Don't run and hide  
If I love you too  
Oh please  
Don't hurt my pride like her

'Cause I couldn't stand the pain  
And I Would be sad  
If our new love was in vain…

He had to stop, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with memory. Three years later, he believed they were still the most naked lyrics he’d ever written, honest, needy, so, so afraid. He'd not written them in a happy frame of mind, but had scrawled the words on the back of a valentine Paul had given him, as a joke.

A joke. That was the thing, wasn’t it. He’d laughed at the card, and kissed Paul’s cheek, but he’d been so hurt, too, that for whatever reason Paul had needed to use it for a laugh. _Maybe he was protecting himself, his own feelings_ , he thought now, but at the time, John had been utterly crushed, wondering whether Paul felt what _he_ felt, or if it all was some game, to him, or some weird Irish Catholic thing needing some plausible deniability for the rest of the world.

Well, John wasn’t going to give him any wiggle room. He was either in with John, or out, and a bare hour after Paul had given him the card, John – feeling more than a little terrified – had shoved it back into his hands without a word. Because if Paul needed any other words besides these, then maybe it was time to just give up on the relationship, if it even was a relationship. He’d pressed the lyrics into Paul’s hands and walked away, gone into the cafeteria for a cuppa and a smoke. He’d shivered at the table, barking away at anyone who’d approached, waiting, waiting… waiting for Paul to come in and, what? Hug him? Kiss him? In front of the whole studio and Sir Joe and all of them?

 _Idiot_ , he’d thought then. Why do you always want the _impossible_?

And then Paul had come in and gone directly to John, not sitting down, just standing there looking at him, his hands shoved into his coat pockets. “Get your coat, Johnny, we’ll have a walk,” he’d said. No, _ordered_.

 _This is it. He’s breaking up with me_. John obeyed without comment, because he reckoned there was no reason to talk. It was over.

Instead, Paul actually had taken him for a walk, down the street, around the corner, into a small park that was deserted, thanks to the frigid weather. He’d not said a word as they walked, nor let go of John’s arm. _Whatever he is building up to say_ , John thought, _he wants to make sure I can’t run off._

John wanted to weep. _Idiot, idiot. You had to know he was never going to be able to handle such an open, needy declaration. Shit, it was practically a proposal of marriage! What were you thinking, all because your pride was hurt, because Paul had been too light, when all you ever want to be is heavy._

And now, he was going to lose him. Paul, silent as a spectre, his face serious and grim, was leading him into a deep grove of evergreens which held one of those hidden temples the Victorians were so hot on erecting. Deep within the grove, even deeper within the temple, where no one was about or likely to enter, Paul had finally stopped, finally let go of John’s arm, and had simply looked at him. _Looked at me_ , John recalled now, _like a parent who had done his best with a wayward child and was now out of ideas – with such an expression of, what? Disappointment? Yes, but no. With guilt, too. And exasperation. And confusion_.

It was freezing out, and Paul seemed to be giving himself busy work as he thought what to do next. He’d buttoned John’s coat all the way up, turning his collar against the chill, as well. And then, he had cupped John’s cold cheeks in his own warm hands and just gazed at him, shaking his head. “Johnny,” he whispered. “What am I going to do with you, lad?” 

“I’m sorry,” John said, hardly daring to breathe. “I put you on the spot.”

“ _Johnny…_ ” Paul exhaled hugely, frost steaming from his heat. “Shut up, now, just shut up. Let me say it.”

“I’m sorry…” he couldn’t have stopped the words if he’d tried, and he hadn’t tried. “Paul…”

And Paul had silenced him with his lips, kissing him forcefully, licking into his mouth and then going deep, wrapping one hand around John’s waist and the other pressing on the back of his head, not letting him breathe, not letting him escape, the kiss going on and on until both of them were moaning, _no, I was whimpering, whimpering into his mouth like a bird, and wanting him to just love me, just love me. Just say it. God, Paul, just say it!_

“Johnny,” Paul had whispered when their lips finally parted. His hands came back to Lennon’s face, “Johnny, how can you still not know you’re mine? How can you doubt it? You belong me to me, boy. And I belong to you. Don’t you know that? Don’t you know it _yet_ , baby?”

And John hadn’t been able to reply for the constriction of his throat and the tears springing up in his eyes. “Paul,” he choked. “Please…”

“What do you _need_ , what will it take, for you to believe me, Johnny?” Paul’s eyes searched his own, wiping the tears away with his thumbs, and looking deeply at him, his own eyes an agony of confusion. “What do you need to _trust me_ , love?”

“I do trust you,” John tried.

“No, baby, you don’t. You’d never have written that poem if you trusted me. You…I hated it, John. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve written, but I hate it, because… it says you’re afraid of me. You don’t trust me.”

“I…don—” He closed his eyes, sighing and knowing it was true. “I trust you as much as I can, Macca…”

“ _Do_ you,” Paul frowned. “I already know you don’t trust anyone else, but…Johnny…baby…what can I do, love, to make you trust _me_? Will you ever?”

John had given him a small, frightened look, and with that Paul had simply grabbed him, pulling him in tightly, as though he would absorb him, if he could. And he said as much. “Baby…Johnny, listen to me, lad. If I could rip open my own chest and bring you inside me, I would do it. I would open myself up and bring you in and let you live inside me, where you’d be safe, where I could keep you safe, forever. And we’d just live like that, yeah? Have I never told you that?”

John had shaken his head, unable to speak. Barely able to breathe.

“Look at me, John.” It was a voice that would brook no disobedience, but John couldn’t do it.

Paul pulled away, his hands grabbing tightly at John’s shoulders. “Johnny, look at me. _Right now_.”

 _Right now. Oh God, he’s going to leave me_. John raised his watery, fearful eyes to Paul’s, and saw in their dark depths a look of warmth and wild, furious determination.

“I love you, Johnny,” Paul whispered. He said it again, louder this time, and shaking John a bit, as though trying to get through to him. “I _love_ you. Do you understand? It’s not going to change. You don’t have to get mad, or feel threatened if I don’t say it the way you do. I… can’t, always. Sometimes… I just can’t. But you must believe me, love,” Paul’s voice was going gentle. “Whatever I can or can’t say, that’s a… a deficiency in me.” It was one of the rare, almost thinkable moments, when Paul was himself near tears. “And you’ll have to learn that… that I’m as weak as you are in some ways, and--and just… look for it, look for me sayin’ it in something other than words. In all the _other_ ways I can say it, yeah? Do you understand? _Johnny_?”

And then he’d pulled him into another kiss, a limb-shaking destroyer of a kiss, a life-ruiner of a kiss that had John panting and ready to go on his knees before Paul, to show him what it meant to him, what it did to him.

 _I’d have taken him in my mouth right there, before Victoria and God and everyone,_ John remembered now. Christ, he was so hot, so passionate. _So much Paul._

Slowly, John had learned to look, to find the other ways that Paul made his feelings so clear when his words failed him. The way he’d worked so carefully on crafting the harmonies with John. How he’d insisted – utterly insisted in the face of real resistance from George Martin – on the two of them singing into one microphone as they’d recorded it, holding John’s eye throughout each take, reaching out and discretely grabbing John’s hand. In one take the space between them had grown so rich with feeling that the song became something almost tangible, and Paul’s voice had broken, cracked at a top note he could ordinarily handle with air and room to spare, and he’d smiled and shrugged at John, and it had felt like a vow.

It _was_ a vow, John believed. They’d discussed it, and Paul didn’t disagree, and for a while John was hungry with the idea of them being married, wished for it, imagined it, believed it every time Paul would whisper it to him, his lips near John’s ear, urging him on in bed, commanding it, nearly growling it. “You are _mine”_.

 _As much as possible_ , John would qualify later, when running their lovemaking through his mind. Paul’s claim of ownership would give him a private thrill as he recalled it in the wee small hours. But qualified. _As much as possible, I am his_. But then he could never help the wondering, could never still that small, sad, needy voice within, that would pipe up with that tiny, niggling torment. _Is he mine_?

The question intruded even now. _He’s in France, with Sophie and a little girl sprung from his own loins, who he must love that kid with every fiber of his being. And he’s going to Liddypool to see his daddy, who also owns him, and his aunties and all. And then he’ll likely need to stop in at Jane’s before he comes home, to settle her down after taking off so suddenly. Paul belongs to everyone and to no one,_ John thought sadly, and he closed the piano looking around the room, that feeling of discomfort returning. This was Paul’s flat, for now, yeah…but it didn’t seem like Paul. The art, the furnishings, all very nice, said nothing of Paul.

But the bedroom would, and that’s where John went, taking off his shoes, as though he were entering a sacred place. He wandered about the room, opening drawers, the small box that held Paul’s cuff links – he wore no other jewelry. _I should have given him a ring…_

Toes digging into the thick carpeting, John closed his eyes and took a big sniff. There. There was Paul. He opened the closet, bringing jackets and sweaters to his face, seeking out Paul’s smell – leather, fresh mown grass, tobacco and that husky musky scent, so surprising in a man so delicate-looking, because it was heavy with sex, with man-sex as Lennon sometimes called it.

But then Paul wasn’t so delicate. His face was beautiful – his body was beautiful! – but he was larger than he came off in photos; if he missed six feet, it was by the merest hair, John knew. His legs were endlessly long, perfectly formed, but also meaty -- enough to make a lap that was comfortable and large and rounded, just made for straddling. And the broad shoulders, made for clinging to, hanging on to, throwing one’s legs over. He was delicate, aye. But he was a beast, too, a magnificent specimen of rampant male. A sweet tumbler; a subtle animal. 

John crawled on to the bed, grasping a pillow in both hands and burying his face in it. There. There was Paul, ripe, homey. Vetiver cologne and Turkish cigarettes, and tea and cream and musk. He wanted to eat it, wished he could consume it. _L’essence d’Paul_ , as Sophie might say.

Sophie, that… that…

He couldn’t say the word. Couldn’t call her a bitch or a witch or a manipulator or a whore. He knew she was none of those things. She was just a sweet, fresh girl who had been dragged into their world for a time. And she’d given Paul what he, John, would never be able to – a baby who looked just like him.

The thought broke him. John pulled the pillow beneath him, holding it close and taking its scent through his tears. _Paulie, my love…_

He must have dosed after a bit, because when he opened his eyes again, the first shadows of evening were coming through the windows. John turned over, laying flat on his back, reaching around until he found one of George’s tightly wound joints, which he lit and sucked on deeply, not realizing until it was too late that he would be obliterating the other scent, the one he’d been seeking out and feeding on, _L’essence d’Paul._

Well he’ll just have to come home, then, won’t he, and smell up the place again. And hopefully they’ll be able to write, to start preparing stuff for the next album. They were due inside the studio, soon, and had next to nothing on tap. _I wonder what we’ll talk about, this time,_ he thought. _I wonder if he’ll bring up leaving, again. Or the rape? How do we talk about that, now?_

Few realized it, but one of the reasons the Beatles wore so well, why they got on together and offered no drama to the local gossips, was because they actually talked to each other. Not in a way the world would understand – they were Northern men, after all, and disinclined to exposition or open conversations – although Paul’s miseries had certainly changed that, at least for now.

But there were always things that needed saying – as with the case of “If I Fell,” for instance -- and John and Paul had saved their most honest stuff, and some of their roughest stuff, for the conversations they had on vinyl, talking to each other bluntly, but with a beat, or with one of Paul’s jaunty or haunting melodies that would carry his encryptions into a million ears and then stay there for weeks on end, burrowing into psyches.

It had started with the _Help!_ Album. No, really, John thought now, the honesty, the self-sharing, it had started with _Beatles for Sale_ , with John writing exactly what he felt and believed: “I’m a Loser.” With Paul resolutely declaring himself with the same stubborn, weird sense of detachment he’d had at sixteen, when he’d first written “I’ll Follow the Sun.” _A terrifying song at either age,_ John thought. _Paul had always been one to say no grass would grow under his feet._

And there had been the one song that was real between them, and a kind of conversation: “No Reply,” written after he and Paul had had a spat that was really no one’s fault, but Paul had holed up afterwards at Wimpole Street, and if the phone ever was picked up, the lad was always ‘not at home’. They’d patched it up soon enough, but the song had come, anyway, and it became one of the duo’s favorites. John getting out his feelings, Paul writing and singing perhaps the best middle eight harmony in rock-and-roll up to then, the handclaps, the energy. John loved that song.

But it was _Help!_ where the boys really started talking to each other, all unconsciously. The band was exhausted – Brian’s death marches of touring, the films, the recordings, the endless interviews and demands for singles as well as albums, it had begun to take its toll, and smoking vast quantities of pot, while soothing enough for Paul, wasn’t doing it for John. The partners were exhausted, too. They were, as Paul once put it, “living ten years for every one,” and it was showing on them. When John had looked at the proofs from their mutual photo shoot with David Bailey, that had been his first thought, too: _Good God, we look so old! Paul was only a dewy-faced young colt, what… a year ago? Yesterday, it seems. I look thirty five if I look a day_.

He had let it all out on the _Help!_ album, not only crying out, quite nakedly, about how his own life felt like it no longer belonged to him, was peopled with strangers and too full of fakery, but he also deplored the necessary hiding out that was beginning to define his relationship with Paul on “You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away.” When Paul came into the studio with a tease and a blazing hot vocal on “The Night Before”, no one knew it was written after John had given him a blowie that, they both agreed, could never be duplicated. “It’s Only Love,” had poured out of John the morning Paul had rolled his eyes at him over something unimportant and then had shut out the entire band, hiding behind his blank face and a newspaper.

John was smiling, now, recalling it, thinking how much he loved it when Paul went “blankface”, because it meant he was feeling something powerful, even though he would not show it, would give no life to his vulnerabilities. It was learned behavior – John always wondered why, or how, the lad had needed to develop it -- and Macca had been managing it from the day they’d met. It was one of those blank faces that came down the moment John had asked how the pudgy youngster had liked The Quarrymen. “You’re alright,” Paul had allowed, betraying nothing. It still amused John to remember it.

“ _Alright…_ ”

But it was their last album, _Rubber Soul_ , where he and Paul – and even Georgie, a little – had an all-out discussion and it was mostly about the acid. And about the first real energy Paul had given to the idea of packing it in, of getting off the treadmill that kept them running, when they were so, so tired. “I don’t know that I have the stamina for this,” Paul had told him, once, as they were cuddled in bed.

“Go on, lad, you love being up on that stage screamin’ yer heart out,” John had goaded him.

“I do love it,” Paul acknowledged. “But I don’t need it.”

“You’d better be sure of what you’re saying, lad,” John had warned. “Because if I ever caught you playing with another band, love, I’d chase you down and kill you.”

That’s where “Run for Your Life” had come from, and they’d had fun with the song, John barely able to keep from laughing as they recorded it, and Paul putting so much verve into his harmonies that it sounded youthful and bright and… well… _kind of queer, actually_ , he thought now.

But Paul had meant it when he said it, John knew. _He didn’t believe he needed to perform anymore. Been there, done that, seen all the girls pissing themselves and no one listening_. “We don’t need it, do we?” The subject had come up again after John had let loose with some spiteful mockery of “Yesterday”, causing yet another unnecessary row between them. Paul had forgiven him, and kissed John’s hand and given him one of those big-eyed, pleading looks. “I’d be happy just writing songs with you, for others, you know, not needing to perform them, meself. Do away with all the rest of this madness. Maybe write that musical we’ve talked about.”

Then again, “Yesterday” had been written by Paul, all alone, just as “Help!” had been all John’s. They weren’t composing many songs together, anymore, not entirely, not like in the early days. Now, they were writing to each other, and for each other. So, “Run for Your Life” had been a joke. And “Michelle” was a love song to Paul’s little girl, of course. But much of the rest of the album was a serious discussion – an ongoing argument, really – between the couple, and all about LSD, that never-resolved battle, with George playing Greek Chorus. And absolutely no one knew it. Not Brian, not George Martin. John wasn’t even sure that Ringo understood it.

It had started after the party in Los Angeles, and the big freeze-out John had thrown Paul’s way. Macca, typically, had betrayed none of what he was feeling, showing himself to be in complete control, and blank-facing like mad. But at some point, while missing John and feeling aggravated that their holiday together was being wasted, he had written “You Won’t See Me”.

When I call you up  
Your line's engaged  
I have had enough  
So act your age  
We have lost the time  
That was so hard to find  
And I will lose my mind  
If you won’t see me

Everyone thought it was about Macca and his Little Red. The public perception of Paul and Jane was that they were a tempestuous couple, John knew, but the truth was, those two got on better than most realized and rarely fought. No, the song had been meant for John, and he completely recognized it when he saw his own words to Paul thrown back at him:

Time after time  
You refuse to even listen  
 _I wouldn't mind  
If I knew what I was missing_

That had been John’s argument, especially when Paul refused to at least give his blessing to John tripping without him. “You wouldn’t mind, Paulie, if you knew what you were missing, but you won’t even try!”

“You're right, I won’t,” Macca had agreed, crossing his legs and opening a newspaper, signaling he was done with the discussion.

But what he wouldn’t show to John in person, he’d shown in the song, in the music. _“I just can’t go on, if you won’t see me.”_

The line had nearly broken John’s heart, made him feel real regret for the freeze-out. And it was on that huge mound of regret that Lennon had written “In My Life”, needing to give Paul the words he thought he’d never manage any other way.

But of all these friends and lovers  
There is no one compares with you  
And these memories lose their meaning  
When I think of love as something new

… In my life, I love you more.

He had been reaching for Paul’s hand all day as they’d made one more run-through and then finally recorded the song. “Stop holding my hand,” Macca had cautioned, and the tapes had picked it up. John, feeling needy, had been coming between Paul and his teacup. But they had sung it together, Paul’s harmony running through nearly the whole song. They were once more singing it to each other -- older than they were since “If I Fell”, wiser and less naïve. They were wiser and a great deal more wary of the world than they had been before, and ready to acknowledge that love was deeper than romance, and that it cost more, too.

And John had to say it, needed to put those words down on vinyl and thus enter it into the public record: that more than Julia, more than Stu, more than Mimi or Cyn, more than…anyone, really, John Lennon loved Paul McCartney. “In my life,” he had wailed into his falsetto and then paused, looking directly into Macca’s eyes and declaring with emphasis, “I love _you_ more…”

But yeah, relationships were hard, and the arguments over the drug hadn’t ended. Paul wanted him to stop dropping acid, period. John refused. He had agreed to stop overtly pestering Paul over it, but he would still ask him, sometimes; he still wanted the shared experience, needed it, and he realized it was because he was afraid. He feared leaving Paul behind, staid and provincial, while he, John, was ready to move onward, to explore how bright and deadly and immense was the world beyond their reach, beyond the obvious. “I’m here, and you’re nowhere,” he had said. And he’d meant it to hurt, if only to move Paul.

Nowhere man please listen  
You don't know what you're missing  
Nowhere man, the world is at your command

He's as blind as he can be  
Just sees what he wants to see  
Nowhere man _, can you see me at all_

Paul had heard the argument John was making – and he wrote an undeniably brilliant bass line for the song – but he was offended by the notion that he didn't have eyes and a working brain, that he couldn't 'see' John's point. He saw it all too well. He also saw how John's drug use, especially the acid, seemed to be eating away at Lennon's drive and (more importantly, to Paul) lowering his willingness (or ability) to think about anyone but himself and his next high. And so, a week later, they were recording Macca's unsparing bruiser of a rebuttal. Paul was done being nice about it

I'm _looking through you_ , where did you go  
I thought I knew you, what did I know

You don't look different, but you have changed  
I'm looking through you  
You're not the same

…Why, tell me why did you not treat me right?  
Love has a nasty habit of disappearing overnight

You're thinking of me, the same old way  
You were above me, but not today

The only difference is you're down there  
I'm looking through you  
And _you're_ nowhere

It was brutal. It was honest and forthright, and a powerful last word (up to that point) in a conversation kept distanced and detached (and thus, non-destructive) through music. What the boys had discovered was that handing each other the truth, lyric-by-lyric, forced them to hear each other while also giving them a reason to look away -- to take the edge off things as they sought out a chord progression, a bassline, a beat, and that kept it all safe.

Still, "I'm Looking Through You" was a smack-down with a beat, and made all the more hurtful because Paul's melody was happy and melodic, the sort of thing you'd whistle while walking or working. It sounded almost like jeering, to John's ears. The bright tunefulness of the song, coupled with words that, John knew, were loaded with sarcasm, open disappointment, and enough truth to matter, fell on him like a left hook come out of nowhere. From the Nowhere Man, himself. It was almost too much, and Paul found that he had to reassure John again and again that the “love” that could “disappear overnight” was not a threat but an expression of Paul’s own fears.

“That you’ll fall out of love with me,” John had asked, sounding like a frightened, child. "Is that what you're afraid of?" 

Paul had shrugged – a terrible action, in one sense, because it didn’t deny Lennon’s question – but the bassist had also shaken his head, sadly. “Or that _you_ will fall out of love with _me_ , Johnny, because I won’t just blindly follow. And you always need to feel like you're leading.”

“ _Never, never_ ,” John had insisted. But then he remembered how easily he had cut Paul out of his life in L.A., and he couldn’t deny the question, either.

Paul had softened the blow, later, when he wrote "We Can Work it Out", and that song became a real collaboration, and also a reconciliation, when John inserted the middle eight. "Life is very short, and there's not time for fussing and fighting, my friend." _My love_. They'd recorded it only days after they'd received their medals, only weeks before it all went so wrong. And Paul had almost died. John never wanted to face anything like that again in his life. Nor these long months of absence, of physical sacrifice. _But a sugar cube might help that, aye_? That's what was driving John, now, nearly all he could think about. _Might just put Paulie back on his feet. And back in our bed_.

 _Love, real love_ , John thought to himself, suddenly, _was so fucking difficult_. It wasn’t hard to have the sort of love he had with Cyn – and he did love her, in his way. But it was a love that went-along-to-get-along, lied as much for convenience as to spare feelings – a love that felt alright with lying, because so little truth had ever attached itself to the relationship. He would always love Cyn. She was a great girl, a classy, thoughtful, sensitive, smart, talented lady. Too good for him, in fact – he knew that and admitted it freely. But if hadn’t knocked her up, he’d never have married her.

Because what he’d really wanted – had always wanted -- was to marry Paul. Like the girl in the song.

Hey Paul, I've been waiting for you.  
Hey hey Paul, I wanna marry you too.  
If you love me true, if you love me still,  
Our love will always be real,  
My love, my love.

_I should have bought him that ring, at Christmas…even if he never wore it, he’d keep it._

John was good and stoned, now, his head spinning, as he considered whether he wanted to light another blunt or go home. What time was it, then? Time to eat? He was pretty hungry now. Time for Paul to come home, wasn’t it? 

_Hey, Paul, I want to marry you…_

He turned again, embracing the pillow, still able to discern Macca’s lingering scent if he really concentrated. _Oh, I want you. I want you in me. I want to ride you, to get on top and feel you inside me, and then ride you until you’re sweating and breathless and half dead, until I see your eyes roll back in your head and your teeth bite through your lip -- until I make your cock weep for want of release, and you scream and cry and let me hold you. Let me hold you._

He squeezed the pillow again and then slipped it beneath him, imagining it, straddling the thing as if it were Paul, soft and round, and then riding, riding, picturing his lover beneath him, ready, wanting him, sighing and gasping as John lowered himself on Macca’s straining cock, inch by inch. “All of you, all of you,” he muttered between his teeth. Paul’s scent in his nostrils, the friction against his own arousal feeling so good, so much better than a lonely hand. _The brain is the biggest sex organ in the body._ His stoned mind tumbled into the thought and then went sideways as John lost all sense of self control and humped deep into the pillow, tears falling. _Fuck my brain. Fuck my brain, Paulie, oh Paul…_


	47. Heavy Things in Two Cities, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul learns how to suck on a splinter, and discovers that Sophie, too, has not been immune from the reach of evil. They share a tender moment that surprises them both, and it helps Paul come to a surprising, necessary realization about what he deserves, and what he does not. Michelle's epic meltdown as he leaves is almost more than he can handle. Meanwhile, John... John is in a very bad place, and he is about to do something that may well be unforgivable, even for Macca, who has always forgiven John anything. Up to now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **UPDATE: I know I said this chapter would be the end of "Book I" of this story, but the next chapter, which I am writing, is a surprising scorcher and it's going to be so important, to Paul, to John, to John Dawson and Jane, that I have GOT to permit it to be the end of Book I. Because it's a moment of revelation for Paul that is going to permit him to come back to himself (and his own understanding of himself, sexually) in a powerful and unexpected way. So, this is _not_ yet the end of the the first book!**.

**PART TWO:**

Once they'd left the vineyard, Paul had settled into the luxurious leather cushions of the limo, his head back, eyes closed, feeling grateful to have nearly two hours before they would hit Orly airport and he’d have to speak again. He was on his way to Liverpool, and then home to London, and he felt ready for it. As much as he had dearly loved his time with Sophie and Michelle (and he did look forward to coming back), he was ready for a little quiet, a little solitude, a chance to think a little bit about what was just behind him ( _that bossy little thing and her bossy little mother. The cozy day. What Sophie had won, and what he'd won, too. Soft, warm, together)_ , and what lay before him: _Sleeping in. Apologizing to Jane. Again. Maybe writing a bit of music, too, finally, and showing it to Johnny._

He felt like that was a real possibility, now, as though something had broken open with him the previous night, when he’d sat at the piano with his daughter and sang and played until he felt nearly delirious for having managed a re-connection to himself. Music was beginning to bubble up from inside him, once more, to flow into his consciousness like a soundtrack to his life, and yes, he was feeling grateful, was pulling lyrics from himself and writing them down as they came, taking great comfort in reopening his worn notebook. _All the lonely people_ , he had written, recalling that first weary night at the vineyard, as he’d pondered the night sky from his bed. “ _Where do they all come from_?”

There was music coming, too, he could feel it, had wrung a bit of it out of the old spinet in the family room. It was a bare, lonely tune, a little dark, and it had bite to it. Like nothing he had ever written before. _All the lonely people, where do they all belong…_

He hoped he wouldn’t feel too lonely without Sophie and Michelle, who had quickly become so important to him. But truly, spending a full day in their company had worn him out a little. He had enjoyed cooking with Sophie, who'd brought a chicken for roasting, “for old time’s sake,” she’d laughed, reminding him of the lunch they had shared in Hamburg before so innocently, and accidentally creating their daughter. The young woman had seasoned and prepared the bird and some potatoes while handing Paul a rather imposing-looking knife and a number of carrots. “Do you know how to julienne,” she had smiled at him.

“That’s the long, stick sort of thing, aye,” Paul had raised his brows. “I think I can manage,” and they had teased each other and chatted and consumed a little wine as they’d worked together, Michelle chattering and wandering about and once scaring the life out of Paul as she reached for a carrot while he chopped. “Baby, be careful,” he had gasped, “daddy has a sharp knife.” He’d handed her two carrot sticks and shooed her away. “Go, sit away from daddy’s big knife, now!” Michelle had giggled, murmuring something about Remy that had her mother blushing and biting a lip.

“ _What,_ ” Paul had asked with playful suspicion. “What about Remy, now? Is she comparing our skills?”

Sophie couldn’t stop her chuckles. “She said only that Remy is not afraid of her, and gives her many more carrots.”

“I am not afraid of you, little girl,” Paul had turned to Michelle, shaking his knife at her, without thinking. “I just want you to be safe.”

“He says as he brandishes a big blade in her direction,” Sophie narrated.

Paul, blushing, looked down at the knife, then up at Sophie, who was discretely looking away, all innocence. Finally, he looked at Michelle, who grinned at him with a wet mouth full of half-chewed carrots until he shook his head and went back to his work.

“Is Remy nice to our girl,” he asked Sophie after a moment.

“Of course he is. I sign his paychecks. And also, she is very good in his kitchen and goes only where she is permitted.”

“Oh, so it’s only _me_ she terrorizes.”

“Well,” Sophie gave a delicate shrug of the shoulders – a habit he had always found endearing – and picked one of his carrots to snack on, herself. “Remy is not her papa. She never gets so close.”

“No, Remy is _not_ her papa. So, she lets him have a mustache, too,” Paul pretended to grouse.

“Do you wish to have a mustache, then, Paul?”

Paul chopped with determination. “I am a man who hates to shave,” he explained. “And if I am going out past 5PM, I must shave twice. Yet you see no mustache on me.” He pretended to twirl one, deepening his voice and trying a French accent. “Does mademoiselle _like_ ze mustache on a man? Hm?”

Again, the little shrug. “It depends on the face, or the man.”

“Oh.” Paul kept his eyes on his work, trying to seem detached. “And does the man you’re seeing wear one?”

“What man,” Sophie frowned, looking up from an orange she was peeling. “There is no man.”

Paul continued to look down, extraordinarily _focused_ on the carrots. “I sort of thought last night, when I asked, that you changed the subject. That you didn’t want to say.”

“Hmm. When you were flirting with me?” Sophie seemed to be thinking back. “Was that when?”

“I never flirt,” Paul seemed offended. “Only sometimes. It was when _you_ were flirting with _me_ , and asking for a cigarette.”

“I never smoke,” Sophie huffed. “Only sometimes, and it was when you were flirting with _me_.”

“But,” Paul put down his knife and starting filling a colander with the slices. “You are in school. Have you not met anyone you like?” He was not flirting, now. He really wanted to understand what was going on with Sophie. Why was a girl like this, a little gem of a girl that any sane man would want, not with anyone, not enjoying a lover in her bed? Such a waste.

Sophie moved her head back and forth, making one of those deep throated gallic noises that meant nothing at all, and which Paul believed the French had invented only to fill a lull in conversation, but she answered as she rinsed the vegetable, her excellent English quite unusually going a little sideways. “There are nice boys and there are bad ones. Sometimes I have liked a boy who is nice, but he doesn’t not want a girl with a baby. Sometimes a man likes me who is not nice, and he _does_ wants a girl with a baby, because he has… expectations, yes? Of that kind of girl. Both men do.”

“Do what,” Paul was a little confused.

“Has expectations. Of what kind of girl they think I must be.”

“Oh…” Paul took her meaning with a frown. “But… a good man… he is respectful, yes?”

“Respect, yes,” Sophie poured the carrots into a pot of water, and then adjusted everything before her. “But a good boy wants a good girl, and a girl with a baby does not match that expectation, no.” She took the big knife from Paul’s cutting board and began to scrub. “And a bad man, he is a _bad_ man, so he expects I am a bad girl, yes? This is human nature, and it is called ‘ _projection_ ’. The bad man projects himself, and his way on to me, believes, that I am…” she struggled for the word, “ _lascive?”_

“Lascivious,” Paul guessed, his brows in a deep frown.

“ _Oui_ , like himself. And the good man, he thinks it too, because deep inside us, we all assign the worst of ourselves to each other.”

“That’s interesting,” Paul mused. “Is this what you have learned in psychology?”

Sophie nodded, fitting a slice of orange into his mouth and then bringing a few slices to Michelle, who thanked her mother. “In class, yes, but also, this is simply what I know of people. What I have always known…observed, yes?”

“Okay,” Paul crossed his chest with his arms, narrowing his eyes at her as he tried to find a flaw in her pronouncement. “But, a good man is not laschivious, love.”

Sophie smiled as though she had just turned over his king in a game of chess. “But he _wishes he were_ , in his heart! Because in our hearts we all dream of this, yes? Romance and sex, and satisfaction. And we dream it without all the babies, _oui?”_

“ _Ugh,_ ” Paul said, coming close to approximating Sophie’s default sound. “I guess you’re right. I know I’ve always been a randy git.”

“Randy?” Sophie was unfamiliar with the word, and rolled the ‘r’ so deeply it sounded like she was clearing phlegm.

“Err, sexy,” Paul tried searching for the right synonym. “Always feeling like sex should be happening.” He gave up. “ _Laschivious_ , like me.”

Again, the little shrug, and a nod. “So, like all men, _oui?_ This is what keeps Ma Mere awake or in nightmares.” Despite the woeful narrative, Sophie managed a chuckle as she wiped the blade dry. “All the men who want sex, but with a virgin only, to marry.”

“Any sensible man would want to marry you, Sophie.” Paul said baldly. He made a face, though -- it was a face he was beginning to make quite unconsciously, at any mention of Ma Mere. “So, what you’re saying” Paul continued he wiped the cutting board carelessly with his hand, “is that a good man won’t have you because he thinks you’re…” he couldn’t use the phrase, not at Sophie. “And a bad man only wants you because he thinks the same.”

“ _Oui,_ ” Sophie said in a rather dull expressionless voice, because it was only the truth, and nothing she could do anything about. And she wanted done with the topic, too.

“But a _very_ good man would not think this way, at all,” Paul began. “Ouch, dammit, that smarts!” He pulled his hand away, shaking it. “Bit me!”

“But what,” Sophie came around to him, taking his hand.

“You need a new board, Sophie, look at this splinter!” Paul sounded genuinely annoyed. “And I’m bleeding!”

“Come to the window, let me see,” Sophie calmly led him be the arm to the brightest part of the little house, Michelle following and standing on a chair to peer. “Papa is blood!” Her announcement was loud enough to shake the cabin.

“Papa is fine, baby,” he said to her, even as he hissed at Sophie’s touch. “Look at the size of that damn thing.”

“ _Mai, oui_ , we must buy a new cutting board.” Her casual, unflappable manner caused Paul to look at her with a bit of wonder, and something like awe. “I’m bleeding and you’re just… so blasé about it.”

“You are a baby, yes?” Sophie tsked at him, but with a smile. “Michelle would not take on so!”

“Just get it out,” Paul demanded. “Do you have a thingy? A tweezer?”

“No, but it is no need,” the girl assured him as she – all without ceremony or so much as a veiled look -- took his finger into her mouth, running her tongue softly over the wound.

“Soph--”, he stuttered, his breath catching and his body jerking just a little, in shock. “What are you _doing?”_

“I am removing the…the thorn in your flesh, yes? I am like a little mouse tending a big baby of a lion! Now, be quiet.”

“You bossy thing…” Paul’s mouth moved but the words didn’t actually come. He was choked and amused at Sophie’s pert speech, and moreso by her bold action, which she seemed not to see as at all seductive, but had him barely able to breathe. He felt the tip of her tongue run along the splinter, as though scanning it for information, and his own neurons began firing. A moment later her teeth were grazing along the edge of his finger, and then, her eyes closed as she focused, the girl literally pulled the sharp bit of wood out of him.

_“Ow, Sophie!”_

“It is not hurt,” she dismissed his outcry, skimming the splinter from her tongue with a fingernail. She offered a deliberate, toothy smile at his incredulous look. “Almost done,” and with that, she once more raised his hand to her mouth and then licked the wound, running her tongue over it several times before finally withdrawing and using a napkin to press down on the spot. “There,” she sighed. “ _Finis._ ”

“Sophie, that…that’s kind of…”

“What?” She challenged him. “It is very good. How always we remove the splinters, yes?”

“No!” Paul laughed. “I’ve never seen it. It’s… _weird_. And, good, I guess. And kind of disgusting,” he couldn’t help adding.

Sophie merely laughed, lifting the napkin to see the small wound had already stopped bleeding. “You see,” she showed him. “The tongue, so sensitive, locates just where the splinter slips in. The teeth pull it out and the, how you say, _salive_ , it brings protein and warmth to cleanse, and then _voila_! It is all sealed and will heal.”

“Sealed and healed,” Paul murmured, still shaking his head at her as Michelle tugged at him to be picked up. “That sounds like a song, doesn’t it, Michelle?” The little girl nodded enthusiastically. She had no idea what he was saying, but papa was talking to her, so that was enough. “I kiss,” she said, lifting his hand and kissing one of his fingers. “All better, Papa?”

“You and your mother are witches,” he told her with a jostle. “You belong right up there with Auntie Jin and her smelly magic potions, don’t you? Or no,” he corrected, smiling down at Sophie, who was watching her daughter. “You’re more like my mother, so calm and practical. You should have been a nurse, love.”

“Ugh,” Sophie rolled her eyes and began scrubbing the cutting board. “To always wear the white. _Ugh._ ”

Dinner had been wonderful, all the better for the privacy and intimacy they were enjoying. No _Ma Mere_ , no Remy, no servants. Just a little family enjoying a simple meal, most of which Michelle ate while on her father’s lap. “ _Just for today,_ ” Sophie had allowed to Michelle, and then turning to warn Paul, “ _Just for now_ , and only because you are leaving tonight.” Father and daughter, so troublesome, spent most of their time feeding each other, while Sophie hid her smiles and enjoyed the wine.

“Not to beat a subject to death, Sophie, but…” He fed a carrot to Michelle. “I don’t understand. Maybe it’s because I’m not a good Catholic like you, or because I’m not a woman, but… how can you do it? Just go on, every day, without, you know?”

“Without _what_ ,” Sophie asked, already guessing. “And please remember there is a little one listening?”

“Without se--” he stopped himself. “Without human contact, Sophie, the… the pleasures of the bed, yeah? I mean… maybe it’s easier if you’ve never known it, but you have. At least…well, I’m pretty sure you had pleasure.”

Sophie chuckled as she set down her glass. “I think you know I have. But… it is not for just with anyone, no? With you and me, there was something good and sweet all before. We were friends, always.”

“Yes, but…” Remembering his daughter again, Paul chose his words carefully. “I was fifteen, my first time, and you might say I’ve gone full throttle ever since. With many…really it must be hundreds of women, by now. I don’t know how anyone can live without love, without… without that specific pleasure, if you like. _But you’ve been doing without, yourself for nearly two months_ , he thought, _why are you badgering her about it_ , _when you can’t…?_

He ignored the thought, putting down his fork and looking seriously at the girl before him. “I don’t know why anyone _should_. Go without, I mean. Seems a basic human need, to me,” he finished, finding himself unaccountably blushing. “And maybe a human right! It bothers me that you are alone, and missing that in your life.” 

“I am not missing it,” Sophie corrected, helping herself to a bit more chicken and putting another piece on his plate. “Because I know it will come in God’s time, and until then I am so busy, yes?” She gave a guarded look at Michelle and then lowered her voice, forcing Paul’s attention. “There was a man. One man… ”

“Oh?” Paul looked up from Michelle, all ears, now. “When was this?”

“Last year. You see, each year, after harvest, the soil is tired, and we hire analysts to take samples and advise us for the nutrients to add, yes? In there autumn, last year, came a man a little older, to do the job.”

Macca felt a fluttery chill go up his spine. He didn’t like Sophie’s tone, or the look on her face. “Did he have a name?”

“He was called André, and he was very nice, very friendly.”

At the sound of his name, Michelle became animated, rattling off a remark to her mother, who smiled at her and nodded. “He was very blonde and handsome, and Michelle decided that his golden hair had meant he was a prince.”

 _“Le prince de_ _la saleté!_ _”_ Michelle pronounced.

“Yes, petite, ‘the prince of the dirt’, a very good name for him.”

Paul had put down his utensils, his stomach beginning to ache. He looked across at Sophie and she noticed a darkness to his eyes, as though his pupils had blown. It was a heavy look and she did not quite understand it.

“You are well, Paul?”

He nodded. “I am fine. Did he hurt you, Sophie?”

Sophie cast another look at Michelle, who'd had enough to eat and was busy sliding off her father’s lap, heading toward the couch, and wondering where she would find Theodore. Ordinarily she would not allow it, but this time Sophie seemed relieved to watch her go.

“Did he hurt you?” Paul was repeating the question, his voice a little louder, as though the matter was an urgent one for him.

“He…” She shook her head. “He asked me to dinner, is all. And I thought, ‘he is nice. He is a little older, and so not so…’ she shrugged. “As you say, randy? And he was very sweet to Michelle. And so, I agreed. And we had a very good dinner and a walk. All so nice.”

“But it didn’t stay nice,” Paul guessed, still wearing that dark look as he peered at her from under his frown.

Sophie poured more wine, once again giving that little shrug, but this time not so easily. “Driving home,” she pursed her lips. “He pulled over where it was a dark stretch, coming near the vineyard, you know, where it is very long and there is only the fields…”

“Yes,” Paul could imagine the spot. And the awful scene he hoped she would not describe, as his gorge was already rising, and he could feel his own breath coming fast. _No! Not little Sophie! It couldn’t happen to her, too, please no!_

“Anyhow, he…made like a launch on me, yes. An attack.” Her face closed into something blank, a look Paul recognized in himself. “His mouth and hands, and when I told him to stop he would not, only holding me down in the… pressing me down into the bench seat, it is called, yes? And…I began to yell.”

The scene was beginning to flash quickly through his mind. The darkness, the weight of a man, pinning down this tiny girl, and then rutting against her like an animal. The unwelcome hands, the mouth. A _mustache_ , he imagined, _I bet he had a mustache…_ and suddenly he felt it, the mustache at his lips, on his nipples, saw grey hair _and a mustache on Sophie, biting, sucking obscenely at her lovely little breasts_ , and he let out a sharp gasp. _No! No!_

“Sophie, no! No, love.” He reached across the table, grabbing both of her hands and squeezing tightly. “Sophie, my poor girl, he didn’t… _please_ _tell me he didn’t_.”

“He _tried_ ,” the girl was looking down at her lap, unable to meet Paul’s eyes. “He did, nearly. He said the most awful words and he used bad names for me and he was tore at my clothings. Ripped my blouse. His hands…”

Paul clenched his eyes shut. _The hands_. He knew all too well how haunting the hands could become. Shaking his head, he banished his own memory of hands, clinging instead to the girl’s gone so cold, trying hard to be present for her. Only for her. “You must have been so scared, love,” he choked out, softly.

“It…” Sophie nodded, raising her eyes to his and the words came out in a tremble of a whisper. “ _Oui,_ Paul. I was… so, so afraid.”

At that, Macca left his seat, coming around to take a knee at her chair, pulling Sophie’s head to his own, his hand going to her back, making soft little circles there. “I’m so sorry, love. So sorry this happened to you. Never to you…”

And for a moment, Sophie – strong, practical, busy Sophie -- permitted herself to go limp, to simply linger in the warm embrace of the only lover she had ever known, the gentle boy with the soft voice and the softer eyes, who was holding her as though she was a most precious, fragile thing.

That boy, now a man carrying a great weight, felt her sigh into his neck, and asked no more questions, but they were teeming through his brain. _How far did he get, how much did he hurt you, how badly are you scarred from this? Is this why there is no one in your life?_

After a moment he pulled away, digging into his pocket for a handkerchief and offering it to her. She accepted it, dabbing at her eyes, which were wet with unreleased tears.

“But you see, I do not cry. I will not,” she said softly, straightening her spine. “I will not give that… give him, that power on me.” She took the wineglass Paul was offering, and sipped at it. “And tears are foolish. Because he failed.”

“Tears are not foolish,” Paul said in a quietly firm voice. “I know how frightening it is. And I am glad he failed, but Sophie, _how_? How did you escape him, all alone like that?”

She gave an ironic sort of laugh, a wet-sounding chuckle as she dabbed once more at her eyes, refusing to let the water tumble down from them. “All my life,” she said, “I have begrudged my… my _flux_ , yes? So messy, so ugh. But that night, I rejoiced in it, because he was…he ripped at my… my underclothes, he shoved his hand around, to put his filthy fingers inside me…”

Her words, her descriptions were killing him. _If she’s not going to cry, I may_ , he thought, fighting off his own urge to simply bawl. _The filthy fingers, yes…shoved inside. Oh, God. Oh, girl…_

“But he felt the napkin, and all the warm blood, and he became disgusted, saying foul, foul, things. And he wiped off his hand, the blood onto my skirt and then he… he slapped me. But he started up the car, thank the good God.”

“He struck you?” Paul’s fury felt barely containable. For the first time in his life, he began to harbor a really dangerous feeling inside himself. _He struck my Sophie. I could kill him. I could easily kill him because I know the sort of man he is._

“ _Oui_ , but it did not hurt me. Perhaps because I was so frighten. He was… in a frustration, yes? When he turned on the car, he was off me, and I pulled open the door and ran into the fields.” She could feel Paul’s hand on her head, stroking her hair, could hear his whispering, all words she did not know -- strange and Irish – but she felt real consolation in his warmth.

“You ran into the bushes,” Paul cooed softly. “ _Good girl_ , so smart, my Sophie, and he didn’t try to follow you?”

“He did, _oui_ ,” she admitted, sounding stronger now. “But I know these vineyards well, and I ran and ran, deeply into them, where he could not follow but be lost.”

“Good girl,” Paul repeated, whispering in her ear, tightening his hold on her. “You’re a little hero, Sophie. You got away.”

He could feel her nod. “I could hear his ugly words, but always more distant, and I just was running. And I was here, finally, in the cabin. And I was safe, then.”

“Oh, Sophie, baby girl…” Paul had barely managed the words as he pulled her into a hug, taking her from the chair to meet him on the floor. They were both on the floor and his breath was warm on her as he brushed her hair from her face, his gentle hands carefully tucking in an errant curl. He gazed at her, hoping his eyes could convey all he felt in the moment – respect for Sophie, for the astoundingly tough, strong-minded woman she’d become, despite her delicacy. 

“You got away,” he marveled at her, again pressing kisses to her forehead, and to her cheeks, his hands still there, stroking her face. “I am so glad, lovie, for you. Not that you had to endure all that, but… because you won. You got away. So brave, you are, so brave. You won.” He couldn’t seem to stop repeating the phrase, until finally she nodded at him, her own expression a little puzzled by Paul’s intensity, and by his words.

“ _Oui_ , I did. I _did_ win, then, yes?”

“Yes, baby, you won,” he breathed, and suddenly Paul’s lips were on hers, a warm kiss, moist from held-back tears, his palms so gentle as he drew her more deeply to him, his tongue seeking hers out, meeting and moving together quite naturally, a little ballet of a kiss, graceful, gentle, complementary in what they each were looking for in each other, _just for today, just for now_. The thought was a shared one, though he couldn’t know it.

It had always been so natural between them, and here, in a time-stilled moment so fraught with fears too near the surface and victories barely comprehended – _I have a victory, too_ , Paul thought. _I am alive. I have a daughter. And I’m kissing Sophie and I want to. I really, really do._

Much needed tenderness was what they were offering each other, _just for today, just for now_. A little softness in a world that could turn so brutal, so quickly, and leave one bloody, broken, and running, running through the dark.

They were still kissing – Paul had seemed unable to get enough. He had taken her lips again and again, Sophie sighing into his mouth, and not pulling away. Michelle, tuning into the absence of noise like a suspicious grandmother, came over to them and stood, frankly staring. “Papa,” she commanded. “Mama has no air.”

Paul’s eyes went wide and he began to choke, apologizing to Sophie for laughing right into her mouth at their daughter’s boldness. He needn’t have apologized. Sophie, too, was coughing, her own laughter undisguised. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he chortled as he pulled Michelle down into his lap and tickled her. “Should I kiss Mama, or bite your belly?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but began to playfully bite at his daughter’s belly, all the while growling like a bear, to her screams of delight.

He wondered if Sophie was as grateful for the little girl’s interruption as he was. Things had been getting surprisingly…warm, _and that’s a complication I absolutely don’t need right now_.

Still, the fact of the kiss – that he’d been the one to initiate it, and then to linger at it and even to want more – he was feeling grateful to that, too.

 _France has woken me up_ , he thought now as the limo turned and headed toward the highway. _Sophie and our baby have pulled me from a grave and brought me back to life_. He fished out his lighter and fit a ciggie to his lips. _Who do I thank? God? Thank you, God, or whoever. Mum? Thank you, mum. Music and kisses… not so scary anymore. Thank you, Sophie, my dear one._

It had been hard to leave. He chuckled now, remembering Michelle's first tantrum -- her furious effort to unpack his luggage as she tossed Theodore to the floor demanding that “Papa stay!”

“Stay…” It was John’s demand, too. Even when they were kids, “stay,” he would say. “No school tomorrow, stay; one more song, yeah? Stay. Macca, please stay…” His daughter’s pleas were a familiar echo, to him, thanks to John.

_It’s always been hard to leave…_

And then there had been the baby’s second meltdown, made all the worse because they’d all fallen asleep on the couch, drowsed by emotions and wool and warmth, _and perhaps little too much wine_.

Thank goodness for Michelle’s full bladder which had her yelping as she pushed her way out of Paul’s sleepy grasp. “Papa, off! I to pee,” she announced, jumping down and half running, half skipping to the bathroom, and in too much of a rush to even close the door. He could feel Sophie’s mouth upturned as she giggled into his shoulder at the sound of their daughter peeing and declaring to the world that she had really, really had to go!

“As long as it is not purple,” she laughed behind her hand.

“Just tell her she’s royal, or something,” he’d chuckled. “She already acts like a little queen…”

But the little queen had crumbled as her parents noticed the time and began to rush about the cabin, throwing last minute things into Paul’s bags, and checking for straggling personal items. Sophie had found his notebook under the couch and waved it at him, wondering if he needed it. “Oh my God, yes,” he said, grabbing it from her hand and opening his bag one last time.

“But Papa, no, please!” Michelle had cried, trying to climb into his arms. “Please do not go!”

Sophie had pulled the girl back as Paul checked the bathroom one last time. “But baby, you know he must go. We have talked about it.”

“Mama, no,” the child seemed inconsolable. “Then I will no more see him! Never more!”

“No, no, sweetheart,” Paul threw his toothbrush into the bag and took her into his arms once more. She was fighting him, her arms and legs flailing. “Marie-Michelle, look at me. Look at Daddy, now.” When she would not stop, he finally took her chin firmly in hand and used the same sharp, no-nonsense tone he would sometimes use with his nieces and nephews, and even once or twice with John. “ _Hey!_ Listen to me, now, little girl. Look at me.”

She gave him the dirtiest look he had ever seen a four-year- old manage, full of suspicion and a very naked sense of betrayal, and he couldn’t help gasping at it a little, and then smiling. “No, you’re no little fool are you,” he said gently, his nose nuzzling against her cheek. “Michelle, my darling, I will come back, I promise.”

“You will no more come!” A little whimper escaped from her throat. “Even if I am good, you will no come.”

“I will, Michelle, I _promise_ , I will. Daddy promises! I can’t live without you now that I have you.” He pulled away with a little frown, wanting her to believe his next words. “And you are a very good girl. Always.” He watched a finger disappear into her mouth, her little teeth going at it, and resisted the urge to gently correct her, this time. Because he more than understood her need. “You are my little pearl, you know, my little love, and you make Daddy so happy. Happier than anyone in the world.”

“ _Raiment?_ ” She had asked, sounding like her mother and calming down a bit, her eyes like two huge platters of hope and ache and worry.

“The whole world, baby.”

“But when will you come?” She wanted a date, a time. Tough little cookie.

Paul looked up at Sophie, who had crossed her arms before her, and was tearing up a little as she watched Michelle. “In the spring,” he asked Sophie. “We’re got recording to do, but in the spring? Before the touring begins?”

“Of course, Paul, always you are welcome when it is convenient to you.”

“But when will you come,” Michelle demanded. In a moment was wailing again, pulling at Paul’s hair as she brought her head to his. “You will not come, I know!”

“Easter, baby, how about Easter? Daddy will come for Easter, I promise.”

“When Easter is,” the little girl groaned, sounding exhausted with grief, down to her bones.

“When we plant,” Sophie had told her, stroking her hair. “Papa will return when we plant, yes? Not so long…”

“I’ll tell you what,” Paul had an idea. “What if I leave Theodore with you, yes? And you take care of him for Daddy?”

Michelle pulled back, thankfully releasing his hair. _It’s falling out fast enough on its own, kid_ , he thought. “Now, you know Daddy loves Theodore, yes? So you know I will come back for him, and for you, too.”

The little girl was nodding, but Sophie was not. “But no, Paul,” she said, defiantly closing his luggage and making a point of locking it before he could grab the toy. “We will not teach her to make hostage when she wants something.”

“But Sophie--” Paul started.

“And we will not make an idea in her head that you come back for _anything_ but the little one, yes? It makes for doubt.”

He understood. So smart, she was, this girl. So bright. Why hadn’t he thought of that? “Alright,” he agreed. “But what about you, Sophie.”

That little line appeared between her brows, again. “What about me?”

“Can I also come back for you, too? Is that allowed?”

Pierre-Marie had pulled up with the limo, then, rescuing both of them from the hasty question. Barely managing to put on their coats, they’d piled in. For some reason, Paul had expected the girls would ride with him to the airport – a ridiculous idea, he acknowledged once he’d thought about it; it meant four hours in a car with a fretful child, and would guarantee another Michelle Meltdown in Paris. But when the car paused at the big house, his daughter had launched herself at him again, wrapping her limbs around him like an octopus and begging him once more not to leave.

“Michelle!” Sophie had gone as loud as Paul had ever heard her. “You must let go, now. Papa will miss his plane.”

She could have as well said it to Paul, whose own arms had gone around the girl, holding her tight as he nuzzled her with his cheek. “I promise, I promise, my pearl, I will come back.”

“Papa, no, Papa, no,” was all the girl could say, over and over again. “Please, I will be good! Please stay.” He could feel her little teeth biting at his neck, as one more way to cling to him. “Papa, nooo…”

And then Sophie was pulling her away, and Paul released his hold, letting her. “I will, I will. I will come back, baby I promise.” he repeated again and again to his daughter, from his seat. He looked, all helplessly, at the young woman. “Sophie, I can’t leave her like this!”

“She will be fine, Paul, just _go_.”

“But--”

Sophie closed the door with her hip, grasping at Michelle’s arms and stepping away from the car. Pierre-Marie, quite certain he knew what was desired of him, pulled away, even as Paul was trying to open the window. He stuck his head out, watching sadly as Sophie, her own head ducked away from his view, headed into the house with the struggling little girl. “Do not go,” he heard as the car sped away. “Do not go, Daddy! _Daddy!”_

With a trembling hand he lit a cigarette, and cleared his throat, willing the water away from his eyes. _Daddy. She’s not called me that, before_ , and the memory came of himself, clinging to his father, who’d climbed into his hospital bed, all but calling him back from the brink. _Daddy_ , he heard himself calling, like an echo of his daughter’s own tears and misery. _Daddy, they hurt me_.

Life hurts. Life was hurting now, himself and Michelle, and even Sophie, he suspected. And there was nothing evil to blame it on, this time; this was just ordinary hurt. But he felt a chill creep upon him, knowing how nearly evil had intruded on his family, on Sophie and maybe even on his daughter, _had that bastard somehow managed…_

He put the thought away. He had to. He couldn’t spend the rest of the ride thinking about it – about the wreckage done to him, the harm done to Sophie, even though she had gotten away. She was alone, and it wasn’t right, he thought, his guts once more taking umbrage at how stalled and lonely Sophie’s own life had become. _It’s not right,_ he thought again. _She deserves a whole, happy life. All of it, a good man, a strong, loving relationship, a healthy sex life._ Pondering that, his own brows raised in a new and unexpected idea. _We all deserve that. Sophie does, for sure, and--and so do I._

 _So do I!_ The thought was nearly shocking to him, but he knew it was also right. _Why should I pay for their crimes by… by having no way to love?_

It took several minutes, but finally Paul felt composed enough to speak – to trust that his voice would not waver. Lighting another cigarette -- no shaking hands this time, he tried out his chippiest voice on the driver. “We’re a little late, Pierre-Marie. Can you step on it?”

***

John was stepping out of Paul’s shower, feeling clean but wishing he could wash away his sense of self-disgust. He’d humped a pillow, for God's sake, sniffing it and calling out for Paul. He’d come in his trousers, like a thirteen-year-old on a rut, and then cried, and cried, and hated on himself, and hated on Paul, and then thought about masturbating again.

That had brought him to the shower, where he had made a face at his drawers, tossing them in the hamper, and then scrubbed himself until his skin tingled. And yes, he’d done it, lathered up and come into his own hand again, under the rush of water, growling at himself. Was he out of control? He thought he might be. And how was that going to work with Paul, now? He wasn’t sure could trust himself not to throw his lover on the couch and just start humping whatever part of Macca he landed on. _You’re an animal, Lennon_ , the thought intruded. _But not the good kind, just all sexy. You’re a pig. You’re the last thing Paulie needs._

Shaking his head at himself, at the constant scold living inside him, He’d slipped into a pair of Paul’s own drawers, the vee-fronts that always looked better on his partner, with his trim waist, and sagged a bit on John. They’d do. Cyn would wonder, but it’s not like he and Macca hadn’t nicked each others clothes before.

Finally dressed, he wandered into Paul’s kitchen for a cup of tea, congratulating himself on not having already slipped the sugar cube into the bowl, where he might have ended up using it. “Not for you, Lenny,” he said aloud to himself. “This one’s for Paulie, innit?” After seeing to his own drink, he pulled the small cellophane-wrapped cube from his pocket, holding it up to the light. A little pink it was, but that was hard to see if one wasn’t looking for it. Paul would never notice.

He’d promised Geo no one would be alone when it was consumed, and it was a promise he meant to keep. He told himself so as he unwrapped the cube and tossed it dead center into the bowl, right on top. _The first cube he’ll grab, yeah. And he’ll feel funny and wonder at it, but he’ll never suspect that he’d been dosed. And I'll be here to make sure he's fine, because I love him._

_And then, he’ll understand. And then we can trip together, the way we’re meant to. And then the good times will come. We’ll make love and the whole world will expand and embrace it, embrace us, scream for us, like it always has._


	48. Champagne in Paper Cups PART ONE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul barges in on John and Cynthia, all unexpectedly. He’s cheerful, alert, has a light in his eye, and John discovers he’d arrived in London the night before – earlier than planned.
> 
> But he’s happy, and for the first time since the rape, he seems in good form. Inclined to jealousy over it, Lennon begins to believe Paul had tripped without him, and that it was a good enough experience that he was ready to tell John all about it, ready to admit he was wrong and open himself up to acid, and to using with him.
> 
> That’s not what happened, not at all. Someone indeed got dosed with the acid John had meant for Paul, but Paul was only a witness to what followed.
> 
> And what happened throughout that night… well… there is a lot to unpack here , so it’s a two-part chapter, and not yet the end of Book one, after all. Not yet. 
> 
> Because what is coming up has to happen, before anything ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said the last chapter would end Book One, that I'd start a second part right after. 
> 
> But then this happened. And it's... amazing? Not that I'm amazing, but these characters _are_. And Paul...oh my God, he's... just read it, and the next part. I hope you like it.
> 
> There might be yet another chapter after I finish Part TWO of this one. I've not decided yet. It depends on what happens when Paul takes Jane to dinner and tells her all about the daughter he's known about, and kept from her, all these years.

“Johnny! Cyn! Happy New Year! Wake up!” Macca’s voice rose of the sound of his rapid, incessant hammering at Kenwood’s front door and Cynthia opened it quickly, hushing him.

“Shush, Paul, you’ll wake Julian,” she cautioned as she dragged him in by one arm. “You’re so loud! Are you drunk?”

John Lennon was coming up from the rear, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, his hair still uncombed. “Macca! What are you doing here? I was expecting you tomorrow.” He sniffed something that seemed freshly baked and sweet. “And what’s that you got there, son?”

Paul beamed at both of them as he made his way to the kitchen as though he owned the place. “Got any tea, Cyn,” he spoke over his shoulder. “I figured I left here before breakfast the other day, so I should bring it with me this time!” He reached into a cabinet and began filling a platter with a stunning assortment of pastries and breakfast breads and rolls. “I’m starving, I am,” he announced, “and I hope you’re hungry too!”

“It’s nearly noon,” Cyn corrected, nevertheless putting on the kettle. John immediately reached for a bun that looked gooey and too sweet to be meant for anyone but him. “Past time for brekkie, lad.”

“Sorry. Pretend, then,” Paul ordered, still looking like a kid at Christmas.

John studied his partner with a close eye as he chewed. “What’s up with you,” he frowned. “You look…different.”

“Oh, aye? Good different or bad different,” Paul wondered as he selected a yeasty-looking, nut-topped sticky bun that had been calling to him ever since he’d left the bake shop. “I feel pretty good.”

“Yeah, you look good too, lad. Good color, an’ all.”

“You look like _yourself_ ,” Cynthia emphasized, putting out small plates and napkins as the two men licked their fingers. “Good God, you two, sit down. Stop climbing over the table like five-year-olds!” She eyeballed the treats for herself and sighed with real regret. “The cherry tarts, though...”

Paul took a napkin but continued to lick his fingertips, giving Cyn a pointed look and then blinking at her on purpose.

“Don’t try that look on me, McCartney,” she said. “I’m immune to your flirts and always have been.”

“Not flirtin’ with ya, am I,” he lied.

“Yes, you are,” she laughed as she answered the kettle. “And you’re doing it because you know I am annoyed with you. You rudely left us on Boxing Day with that note, and what a way to find out you have a child! Honestly, Paul, I’ve never been so insulted. How long have we known each other?”

“Long enough for you to feel like you can holler at me, I guess,” he answered smartly.

“And you deserve it! Sit down, for God’s sake.”

Paul had been having trouble sitting, all morning. He’d awoken feeling happy, really happy, for the first time in recent memory – even happier than the morning that had begun with Michelle crawling all over him and poking his eyes – and he was a bit wired with the welcome sensation; it had been too long missed.

John had watched the exchange with his eyes narrowed. Something had happened to Paul, he realized. Something was different. After a moment he saw what it was: his eyes – his beautiful honey-brown eyes – had light in them. Not the dazzling sort of electricity they’d carried before things had gone but, but still… there was light. There was energy and Macca-light. It was different -- _wonderful_ different, John decided. Some piece of Paul was returned, as though he’d been fragmented, and now an important part of him had been snapped back into place.

Wonderful, of course, it was. Any part of Macca reassembling after all he’d been through was an unqualified good. _But it took Sophie_ , he thought with a touch of bitterness. _It took meeting his baby, for him to look like this, so… so… happy. Excited_.

Whatever Paul was feeling, he was nearly glowing with it, and pulling Cynthia into his little circle of light. His wife, too, seemed lit as the two of them bantered like the old friends they were, familiar enough to push each other’s buttons lightly and well. _Not because of me_. The corrosive jealousy that always rose too quickly in John when it came to Paul was already eating at him as he held his teacup aloft. _Because of them, in France. He’s with them, now, not me_.

“What’s happened to you,” his frowned at Paul. “And what are you even doing here? I was expecting you’d return tomorrow morning from your dad’s.”

“And how is dear Jim?” Cynthia’s question was barely out of her mouth before the answer came.

“Argh… I love my da, you know I do,” he held out his own teacup. “But he was drivin’ me mad. They all were, you know. My Aunties came up to see me and they were all treating me like I was as delicate as this cup. And Da was just all over me. About the baby, about Sophie – you wouldn’t believe the time he gave me about not going to her earlier--”

“As I will too, because he’s quite right,” Cyn nodded.

“Don’t you start,” Paul teased, wagging a finger at her. “And Angela,” he blew on the tea and then took a sip. “I love little Ruthie, but I just can’t take to that woman, especially the way she noses around all the time, thinkin’ she’s sly while pressin’ me about my ‘head injury’.”

“She’s always been a nosy one,” John observed lighting a ciggie. “So, your Da’s not told her the truth, then.”

“Thank God, no, and I suspect she knows that.” Macca cut another pastry in half, sharing it with Cynthia. “He’s nor told my aunties, either. Da and Mike have kept it close, which I’m glad for.” He licked his thumb again and then reached into his jacket pocket. “Once Mike was nice enough to see these developed, though, all they cared about was Michelle, so that was good. Still, I felt like it was time to come home. I’d been away long enough.” He turned to John, smiling and chewing with his mouth open, like a kid. “And I missed everyone here, you know.”

At the look of him, adorably happy, a little sloppy as he ate, a lot looser than he’d been in general, John couldn’t help but smile back at Macca, gazing at his dazzling grin – those perfect lips -- and feeling himself falling in love again, _for the millionth time, damn me_.

Cynthia had grabbed the envelope from Paul’s hand and now she set her chair closer to John as she took out the photos. “Don’t touch,” she warned him, “you’ll make them sticky. Oh my God, _look at her!”_

Watching his friends pore over the photographs, Macca felt his chest swell with pride, as it did each time he showed off his daughter. “Christ Paul,” marveled Lennon, “she’s the very spit of you, innit she?”

“She really is,” Cyn agreed, lingering at a shot of Paul holding Michelle, the little girl clinging to him, head-to-head as they smiled. “You look perfect with her, Paul. So happy. And this, the eye contact.” Another great shot Sophie had snuck by them, Michelle kneeling on Paul’s lap, father and daughter completely absorbed in one another, with identical crinkles near their eyes as they smiled hugely.

John threw his head back in laughter at a picture of Michelle holding his gift monkey, Sophie beside her, covering her ears and wrinkling her nose for the camera.

“Is that the girl,” Cyn asked, seeming for a moment not to recall her name. “Sophie, right? John says she was friends with Astrid?”

“Still is,” Paul finished his tea and poured another cup. “Astrid is Michelle’s Godmother, actually.”

“Well, she’s cute. Exactly your type, of course.”

“Oh, what type is that, Cyn,” John asked. “I’ve seen him with every sort of woman, you know.”

“Shurrup, ya tosser,” Macca laughed over his last bite of pastry.

“It’s true. Caught him with a crone, once, even,” Lennon exaggerated.

“A stewardess," Paul winced. "So, she was Matron of the stewardesses! She was nice!”

“Whatever she was, she weren’t no dewy ingenue, was she? Just hot for his form,” he nudged Cynthia. “He got the old canyon flooded, didn’t he? But, truly, I can’t say as he has a type.”

“He does though,” his wife insisted, because she believed women noticed such things. “Petite. _Smoosh-faced_.”

“What does that mean, ‘smoosh-faced’,” Paul challenged, still teasing, but interested and ready to argue.

“Cheekbones,” Cyn’s declared. “High cheekbones and big cheeks. Like you, yourself, actually.”

“Yeah, right.”

She launched in to a list that seemed all-too-ready. “ _Dot:_ petite and smoosh faced,” she counted, “ _Jane:_ petite and smoosh-faced. _More girls_ than I can name from the Cavern days: petite and smoosh-faced. This girl, _Sophie_ , petite and--”

“Alright, alright, I get ya,” Macca laughed, “I _might_ have a type,” he allowed. “ _Maybe_.”

“ _Rumiko Hoshika_ ,” John stage-whispered, slurping at his cup, eyes all innocent. “Little and smoosh-faced.”

“Hey now, be nice. I am genuinely fond of Rumi,” Paul declared. “A music journalist from Japan, came to the studio once,” he explained to a frowning Cynthia. “Adorable. And smart and funny, too. But John knows very well that we’re just friends.”

“For now,” his partner rolled his eyes.

“Shut up, git, look at the pictures,” Paul kicked at him.

After lingering another hour, and entertaining Julian a bit – the child was wild to see Unca Paw so unexpectedly – Paul kissed Cyn on the cheek and slipped on his coat. “Got a date with Janey tonight,” he’d informed her. “A real date, you know? Cozy little restaurant and everything.”

“That sounds lovely. What’s the occasion?”

“Hah!” Paul’s rueful laugh sounded like a cannon shot. “I’m due a beating, is what. And deserved, for leaving so abruptly, and not callin’ her. Called her from Wirral and she gave me a bruise over the phone, didn’t’ she? And I haven’t even told her about this one, yet,” he wagged the envelope at Cyn before pocketing hit. “That’s for tonight. Hence a public venue, where she can’t yell or bloody me too badly.” Tossing his head at John. “Getcha shoes and coat, mate, have a turn about the garden with me before I go, yeah? Want to ask you something.”

Outside, they walked briskly against the chill. “Do anything fun last night,” Paul wondered, lighting a ciggie for himself, and then John’s.

“We did, actually,” John confessed. “Were meant to the Martin party, you know, but then Cyn started making those noises about how everyone in London was phony, and they’d all be milling about ‘pretending to have fun because they’re supposed to, but everyone is secretly miserable'. So, we stayed in bed. Wasn’t bad, either, all-in-all.”

In fact, John hadn’t particularly wanted to make the party either. Cyn wasn't wrong -- he often regretted going to clubs and gatherings because he felt precisely the vibe she’d described – a room full of people and a sense of desperate, forced gaiety all around. But more importantly, _Paul wouldn’t be there_ , and the question of whether or not Macca was going to be in attendance at any event weighed heavily in all of John’s social decisions. Taking a chance, he had wiggled his brows at his wife and held up three joints. Cynthia wasn’t a huge fan – her motherhood usually outweighed her desire to get high -- but Julian was already her mother’s responsibility for the night, and good pot did make her horny as hell.

They’d stayed in their bedroom, gotten high, and – very unusually – made love twice. Cyn had even followed John into the shower this morning and given him a jolly old blowie/rubbie, hadn’t she, until Julian’s cries took her away.

“How about you,” John wondered, nudging Paul’s shoulder with his own like a prossie buttering up a john. “Did you just get in from old Liddypool then, and come runnin’ to see your Johnny? I _am_ flattered, you know. I missed you.”

“Got in last night, actually, ‘bout eight-ish.”

John’s gait slowed a puzzled expression came over him. “And you didn't tell me? Why not? You should’ve called, love. Figured on you letting me know before you came home.” _First thing he’d have done was make tea. Why is he in such good form?_ A little smile curled at his lips. _Perhaps that’s why he’s so happy. He’s tripped and now he knows. He wants to tell me._ ”

“And…” Lennon tried to lead.

Paul gave a shrug, ducking his head a little, as though embarrassed. “Figured you and Cyn were spoken for, you know? So, I called up John Dawson for company. He was glad of it, too. Said another dick was covering for him because New Year’s Eve was ‘amateur night’ and – as he put it – ‘twenty-five years of dealing with fights and public vomiting is enough for any one lifetime’. His whole plan had been to read, drink alone and fall asleep, so instead he picked me up, brought me home. Drank too much champagne, too fast.” 

“So, he’d stayed for tea this morning, did he?” John’s eyebrows were up so high he looked like an owl.

“No,” Paul laughed, a bit too brightly for John’s liking. “He needed _coffee_ this morning. Glad I had some around, too.”

 _Macca doesn’t usually use sugar in coffee_ , John remembered, and _Dawson takes it black_. He sighed with deep relief. _So, the game is still afoot…_

“Thank you for seeing to my plants, love,” Paul sounded almost shy. “And the fresh milk an’ all. Good to have it on hand.”

“Yer welcome,” John shivered, shoving his hands in his pocket. “What was it you wanted to tell me then, babe? Gettin’ cold out here.”

“Oh…” There was a moment of hesitation. “Well, a couple things. First,” he stood in John’s path, looking him directly in the eye, “was puttin’ my laundry together this morning, aye, from traveling, and added the stuff in the hamper.” He was rocking back and forth on his heels, now, a suppressed smile scrunching up his face. “Came upon an interesting pair of drawers, I did. Not mine. Kind of worn ones, too, son. You should go shopping.”

“Alright, alright,” John was smiling back, a blush on his cheeks. “You found me out.”

“Downright crusty they were, with all the spunk…”

“Yes, yes, that’s enough. I can see you’re amused.”

“Looked like some little lad who didn’t quite know what to do with a boner had gone ahead and--”

“I missed you is all,” John interrupted, hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I went to your place and got high as hell and…”

“And what, fucked me mattress blind? I may never be able to sleep there again!” Paul’s eyes were shining with mirth.

“Well… _yes_ , actually,” John admitted. “Pretty much was out of my head, you know. And I could smell you there. Your cologne, your shampoo, your…” he moved nearer, as though afraid someone might hear. “Your musk, love. I just… I got your scent and went a bit mad.”

“S’alright, darlin’” Paul tapped at his cheek lightly. “I get it. Figured it was somethin’ just like that. But I had to tease you, you know.”

“Had it coming, I guess,” John agreed with a shrug and a smile. “Took a shower and stole a pair of yours, too.”

“Keep ‘em,” Paul smoked. He looked up and his partner saw his face go serious. “But there's something else I have to tell you, John. Something happened last night. We got through it and all, but I have to tell you.”

“What is it,” Lennon was suddenly on alert. _Could it be…_ “What happened, Paul?”

“Well, it…” After a pause to find the right words, he started again, a look of obvious strain showing on his face. “Dawson seems to have gotten a dose of LSD last night…”

John’s mouth fell open as his hand went to his chest. _Oh, Christ! Dawson!_ “Wha— how…do you know how it happened,” he blinked, almost as concerned as he looked.

“It was the champagne, we think,” Paul said, looking very serious. "Someone must have laced it.”

Dawson and Paul had walked through the lobby of Paul’s building and, as McCartney stopped to check in with the concierge and collect any messages, Dawson had been drawn to a table full of finger-foods and rows and rows of sizable paper cups full of champagne -- the house's contribution to the evening’s festivities. The detective had popped a cube of cheese into his mouth and then grabbed two cups of the wine, following Paul into the lift.

“What’s that, then, John,” the younger man asked.

Dawson shrugged. “Figured we should have a bit of champers at midnight.”

“Champagne in paper cups,” Paul laughed, "very elegant. Enjoy ‘em both, you Philistine! I’ve no head for it. Puts me to sleep in a nanosecond.”

They’d parted for a moment upon entering the flat, Paul slipping out of his jacket, going into his bedroom to deposit the messages and envelopes he’d been handed. When he returned, Dawson was finishing off his first paper cup, licking his lips with a robust “ahh” of satisfaction, and then shuddering. “A bit dry, though. I like my wine a little fruitier.”

“You _would_ ,” Paul chuckled as he set up the kettle and checked the fridge for milk. _Ah, good boy, Johnny, thank you_ , he thought as he reached for a bottle.

“What’s that supposed to mean, then,” Dawson feigned offense. “You sure you don’t want this?” He showed Macca the second cup.

Paul’s looked over his shoulder, shook his head ‘no’ and turned back to the tea tray he was fixing. “What I mean is, I’ve heard the queen likes her wine a little fruity, and you’re a big queen, so…”

“ _Bastard_ ,” John Dawson had chortled, laughing happily as he dropped a sugar cube into his second cup and then, on consideration, added one more for good measure before drinking it down in mere gulps.

Paul, ever the good English host, had sent Dawson into the sitting room, following him minutes later with toast and tea and biscuits. He’d placed it all on the end table and then opened the piano. “Wanna hear a song,” he asked. “I’ve something new here. Very new, in fact.”

“Yes. Lovely,” John Dawson was taking off his tie, shoving it into his jacket pocket. After a moment, he took off the jacket too, folding it neatly and then tossing it carelessly. The big man was berry-red in the face. Two large cups of champagne, launched down the hatch in fast succession, seemed to have hit him fast and hard. He plopped down heavily on the couch and beamed at Paul. “I’ve been wanting to hear you play something, love. Let’s have it.”

“Understand, it’s raw; I haven’t many words, yet.” He launched into the melody that had been rolling about in his head, the lyrics amounting to ‘da-dah, dee-dah,’ until he reached the chorus. “All the lonely people,” he sang out, “where do they all come from? All the lonely people. Where do they all belong?”

It was plain John Dawson was enjoying the song, was enjoying the fact that, after all this time, Paul McCartney was finding his music, once more. “Found some inspiration, in France, did you,” he asked, as the younger lad let his fingers meander over the keys, looking for a note, or a chord progression, that might engage him.

“May have done,” Paul smiled. “In a vineyard, looking at the stars and realizing they shine on the good, and the bad…” He sampled a few high keys, “on the nuns and the prostitutes and their clientele. The children and the old. And how many of them, of us, really, are lookin’ up at the night sky hopin’ someone else is lookin’ for us…God, or whatever.”

“Ah, that’s like a prayer, innit? You’re a lovely boy, Paulie,” John Dawson praised, as he turned to pour each of them a cuppa. “Not many of us even stop to think about that.”

“Aye, well, what have I had to do these weeks…months… but think.” He nodded toward his own neatly hung jacket. “But yeah, those two, they helped. Get the envelope in my pocket and you’ll see ‘em.” Intrigued with a chord, Paul turned his attention back to the ivory keys, banging out something that sounded like it belonged in an old music hall, campy and pert. More ‘dee-dees’ and ‘dah-dahs’ came, until he found something that sounded like the refrain of a drinking song and he went with it, riffing off of a conversation he’d had with John. “Bang, bang, humhum's silver hammer made sure that she was dead…”

After two turns around the melody, he sang out the chorus again, “doot-doo-doot-doot, humhum's silver hammer came down upon her head…”

Macca looked up at John Dawson, expecting the copper to join in the last words. Instead, the detective was staring at the floor, a look of horror come over him, one hand drawn to his mouth, as though he might vomit.

“You alright, John.” Paul had stopped playing and after a second, as Dawson slowly pointed at the floor, he rose and went to him. “John?”

“Be careful, don’t step in it,” John answered, swallowing back bile.

“Step in what, love?”

“The blood, Paulie, _all the blood_. The… _her brains_.”

Paul looked around, utterly puzzled. The room looked perfectly sound. Licking his lips, he stepped carefully, never taking his eyes off his friend. He sat beside Dawson, studying him for a moment, his brows drawing low. “You alright, Big Cop?”

Dawson groaned, gulping again. “I hate this, I hate it,” he whispered in a hurried, anxious voice. “Who would do this to another human being?”

The confused young man looked down again, half expecting to see something, so great was the detective’s conviction. He put one hand on the cop’s arm, lowering it. “John Dawson,” said in his gentlest voice. “What are you seeing?”

Dawson turned his head, slowly, slowly, from the body before his eyes, the head so bashed in that the face was not recognizably male or female, but it was a woman, he knew. He _knew_. He'd stumbled upon her as a young cop, just learning the beat. A single tear ran down his face, and then another. “Oh, Paulie,” he whispered. “I’ll never get used to it, lad. All the blood. And the – the ways of it, all the brutal ways.”

“But…” Paul felt the hairs on his arms stand up, goosebumps along his spine. _What is happening to the man_ , was his panicked thought. _Is he gone psychotic on me_?

“Can you,” he gulped again, trying to find the right question. “Describe it for me, will you, John? So, I can understand.”

“You can’t see it?” Dawson’s voice was trembling.

“Maybe I can,” Paul pretended, giving the cop a reassuring squeeze. “But, you tell me, so I know we’re seeing the same thing, yeah?”

Dawson nodded, his own hand grasping at Paul’s and rubbing it, rubbing the back of it. “Look at them all, Paulie. That one,” his head gestured down to the spot he’d pointed out earlier. “All bashed in and bloodied. With a sledgehammer. There. Her brains right there, on the head of it. Do you see? So much rage.” He raised his arm, pointing again as a shuddering wet whine escaped from this throat. “And there, look at him. That young, beautiful boy, destroyed, just… destroyed.”

“How did it happen?” Paul choked out, still trying to understand. “What happened, John?”

“An assassination, I figure. He’s… he must have angered the wrong people… a courier or something, maybe. Knew too much, or talked. Half his head blown off, and then tossed off the riverbank, like rubbish.” The cop sniffed, his eyes and nose were running freely, and Paul drew out his handkerchief, dabbing at Dawson, urging him to take it. “Like so much rubbish. He’s all broken, isn’t he. His face… he must have landed on the rocks below – his shoulders dislocated from the impact, his face… shattered. Look ye,” he urged Paul, blowing his nose. “His insides have burst from it. The impact of it.” Dawson shook his head in deep sorrow and regret. “But his shoes are good ones,” he said, straightening up a bit. And the trousers, those are good too. Look at how perfectly they’ve held the crease. Someone loved this boy.” He looked directly at his companion. “But someone hated him, too. Enough to treat him like that. Evil.”

And now Macca could see how blown the cop’s pupils were, his eyes nearly black. He’d seen that look before, seen it on John and George, when he’d never wanted to.

“John Dawson, I think you’ve been dosed-” he began, but the big man was quivering, now, looking down into his own arms, as though he were carrying something, a baby, a child. “Look what they do,” he shuddered, raising his arms so Paul could see. “This poor child, such _filth,_ ” he spat. “Unforgivable filth. Innocence stolen and then battered and bashed.” He could barely choke out the last word. “ _Evil_. The evil is always there, always with us. And we can’t stop it, Paulie, my poor love. We can’t.” He burst into a great wail, grasping at Paul and burying his face into the younger man’s neck. “We can’t stop it. A whole lifetime, and I stopped nothing. It won.”

“No, John Dawson, no,” Macca put his arms around the weeping cop, having an idea what was happening, but unsure what to do about it. “You stopped plenty, you did. You got justice for ‘em, yeah? You’re on the good side, and evil can’t win, can it?” He doubted Dawson could even hear him over the man’s guttural, tormented cries. His own body shook from the force of his grief, and all Paul could do was redouble his hold, pressing his friend’s head close to himself with one hand, his other arm around him, being as protective as he could manage. “You’re a _good man_ , John,” he whispered. “And this is… it’s not _real_ , love. It’s just past pain, yeah? Past horrors you've already lived through…” he gulped, not sure what else to say. It didn’t seem to him that saying “you’ve been dosed with acid,” would help much at this point. The man in his arms was clearly reliving terrifying realities, horrific scenes that he’d perhaps tamped down too hard, for too long. And now he was seeing them again, and he was being traumatized anew, shivering -- clinging tightly, relentlessly, to McCartney until the younger man thought he might suffocate.

“I’m sorry,” Dawson was crying, now. “So, so sorry, Paul, I don’t know why they’re here, I don’t know… your flat is a mess, all the blood.”

“No, love, it’s all right. Everything is good, and it can be cleaned.”

“I can’t be cleaned.”

“You can, John Dawson. You are a good man, and there is nothing… nothing evil to touch you,” he was nearly whispering, barely able to speak himself. “Nothing bloody, or dirty. No filth attached to you, love.” _Christ, help me out here, what can I do for this poor man?_

No answer forthcoming, Paul simply did for John Dawson what he’d done for his daughter so recently. He murmured reassurances and cooed those sounds that must do the job when words run out. He stroked his hair and let the cop cry until he began to grow calmer. “That’s right, Big Cop. You’re fine, now. You're fine, now, John.”

“Paulie,”

“Aye…”

“You’ll stay with me?”

“Of course.”

"Don't go?"

He smiled to himself. _God, it’s like I’ve brought my baby home, after all._ “C’mon now, deep breath with me, John, yeah? Let’s have a deep breath.” They breathed together – Paul could feel the immensity of Dawson’s chest as it rose and then fell, and he urged it on him again, the cleansing breath. _Fuckin’ bear of man, weepin’ on me like a child, like a lost little kid_. Paul felt like his heart would break in his chest for the state his friend was in. He had to raise his own shoulder a bit to wipe away a tear he couldn’t stop.

But he was calming a little, was John Dawson. _My friend. My hero,_ Macca thought as he adjusted himself as best he could, given the weight on him, and then murmured another half-assed noise of consolation. He wasn’t even sure what he was saying, but the sounds seemed to be working.

He hadn’t realized he was doing it, but now he noticed that he’d been rubbing Dawson’s back and patting it, and he thought that was likely helping. “You’re alright, now, John,” he whispered.

He could hear the man gulp, wetly, sniffling again, and sensed that the detective had become distracted. He was playing with Paul’s hair, the little hairs at the back of his neck. Macca frowned, slightly amused, as he felt the giant, mitt-sized hands teasing the strands between his fingers, and then running his palm over Paul’s whole head with a soft exclamation of wonder. “It’s so soft,” he said, sounding amazed. “Your hair is so, so soft.”

 _Yeah, he’s fucking tripping_ , Macca thought to himself, heaving a sigh as his eyes closed and his shoulders went down in a helpless surrender to that fact. He was sure of it, now. As with the blown pupils, he’d seen this before, too. In L.A., the week of John's big freeze-out, George had come over to where Paul had been laying by the pool, and had started stroking Paul’s calves. “So much hair,” he’d exclaimed. “And it's so _soft_ , Paulie. It’s like a kitten’s fur. You’re _furry_. You’re a furry kitty.”

“Get the fuck off of me, Georgie,” he’d shoved the lad away, pretending to laugh, but he’d in fact been horrified – furious, really -- to see the way his oldest friend was so willing to take chances with his brain.

“Not on ya,” George had gently disagreed. “Just…look at your _legs,_ Macca, they’re so _long_. And the hair is so soft. Bunny hair. Is this why John calls you his bunny?”

He’d permitted Hazza a few more minutes of fun at his expense – the callused hands running up and down, stroking from knee to ankle. When they came up high on his thigh on the way back, Paul had had enough, getting up from the chaise lounge. He took his friend’s hand and laid it on the furniture’s webbing. “Feel that, Georgie, it’s all rough. You'll love it.”

When he’d looked back, George was running his hand all over the chaise, a low “wow” escaping from his lips. Paul had shaken his head and shut himself away in his room, depressed as hell by all of it.

And now, here was John Dawson, apparently in for a wild ride of a night as the despised chemical worked its way through his system.

“So soft,” he was saying now, raising his head, an affectionate little smile on his face.

“Thank you, John,” Paul smiled back, wondering how long he could permit this to go on. His whole body was beginning to feel numb with the full weight of the man leaning on him.

Dawson was smiling back, seemingly calming down. He was playing with Macca’s fringe, now, brushing it up and away, off his forehead, his fingers patting it back, and to the side, like an older man’s style. “So, so soft…” Satisfied with his ministrations, the big cop finally pulled back, and Paul nearly coughed with the first big breath he’d been able to take.

“Better, now,” he asked Dawson. But the cop wasn’t responding. Instead, he was staring at Paul with a dawning look of horror, his eyes going wide with it.

 _Oh, shit, what’s he seeing now_ , the younger man bit his lip in genuine worry as his friend backed up, focusing on him intently, without blinking at all.

“Oh _, Neddy_ ,” he whispered, one hand reaching out, stroking Paul’s face before the lad knew what was happening. “Oh… _Neddy, my lad!_ _My sweet love_.”


	49. Champagne in a Paper Cup, PART II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part II of Champagne in a Paper Cup brings resolution, and revelation, to Paul McCartney as -- all unexpectedly -- John Dawson's harrowing acid trip gives him an insight to himself, and to the world, that he'd been missing since his brutal rape, and Paul is going to cling to it, now, because he saw it as a knowledge truly constructive -- a foundational truth upon which he could forgive himself, and build his recovery, and perhaps the whole reclamation of his life, too.
> 
> Meanwhile, John has a plan. 
> 
> And while he has been busy traveling, and distracted by John, and Jane, and Dawson's long, dark night, a flurry of messages and envelopes have been arriving, Special Delivery, all going unattended for the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, THIS is the last chapter of BOOK ONE. A natural ending spot, a little cliffhanger to whet the appetite for book two, and a chance to feel just a little bit happy for Paul, or confused by him, if that's where it takes you. I hope you've enjoyed Carry that Weight, and will keep going with the story -- which picks up at the VERY NEXT DAY, in BOOK TWO, found [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478873/chapters/72413073). 
> 
> Thank you, again, for reading this story through all of its ups and downs. I hope you'll stick with it through Part II.

“You think someone laced his champagne? I don’t understand,” John was frowning, trying to figure out exactly what had happened, and worrying whether his own hand had anything to do with Dawson’s miseries. “Just him? On purpose? But why would they?”

“No, not like that--” Paul glanced at his watch, and began to head quickly to his car. “Shit, look at the time, I’ve got to go. Walk with me, yeah? I’ll explain.”

“Yeah,” John murmured at Paul’s back before picking up his own step. “I can’t wait to hear it.”

“It wasn’t like with me, John. There was no perverse bastard looking to dope him up on purpose. I think it was a random thing, you know? There was champagne for the taking in the lobby, all open drinks, and he grabbed two of ‘em. I didn’t want any, and so he drank them both down, next thing you know he’s…” Paul opened his car door, and stood there, arm resting on it, his face a four-hundred page Russian novel of sympathy. “John, that poor man. You have no idea what he went through. All of a sudden, he’s seein’ dead bodies all over my flat, blood, bludgeoned heads, scattered brains, blown intestines.”

Lennon looked genuinely horrified. “Holy God, he tripped bad!’

“Very bad,” Paul agreed.

“What—what did he do? I mean, how did you manage him?”

Macca shrugged and his expression went from sadness to something like real rage on his friend’s behalf. “I just was there for him, aye? What else? He was mostly cryin’ or shakin. Bawling his eyes out, like a baby, he was. I just held on to him.”

“A big man to hold,” John observed, his lips a thin line. He looked as disturbed as Paul.

“Yeah. A big man to watch crumble like that, too. It was all so real to him, John, and it broke my fuckin’ heart. He’s a good man, he is. He never deserved being done the dirty, like this. Bloke was quivering and describing to me what was before his eyes, and…but he was like a cop, too, you know, taking evidence, noticing things, like wounds and injuries, like he was still trying to figure out these old cases, get the answers.”

“Well, once a cop, always a copper, I guess.”

“Yeah, but… God…” Paul shook his head at the harrowing memories he’d watched his friend endure, and couldn’t help reaching out to take Lennon’s own wrist, seeking his own consolation. “We both should have known better than to take anything from an open table, and God, Johnny, I’m so glad I didn’t have any of it. Could you imagine? Both of us going through that at the same time? Imagine if I’d…”

He didn’t finish.

He didn’t have to. A dawning horror was registering on John’s face as he imagined Paul reliving the brutality and fear of his rape, reexperiencing -- in a kind of hypersensitive way of the mind -- all the filthy hands on him, the dry entries, one man after another… _the comb! The fucking comb, tearin’ him to shreds. The helpless fear_ , he thought. His eyes nearly bulged in his head at the notion. That’s not what he ever wanted for Macca!

“No. God, no, Paul…” his voice fairly shivered. _Jesus Christ! It never even dawned on me that Paul might end up back in November, going through it all… tripping bad…reliving things._ Everything. _Mother of God, what the hell was I thinking?_

“But, but…” John had to say it, as much for himself, to assuage his own self of his own awfulness, as to reassure Paul, “You might not have had the same experience, you know. You might have had a very different…”

His words dried up at the supremely skeptical look Paul was giving him. “You think I’d have John Dawson before me, on his knees, wailing amongst the death and blood all around him, and I’d just be chasin’ butterflies, do you?”

 _No_ , John had to admit to himself. _Likely Dawson’s experience would become Paul’s, too, somehow. Bad trips lead others into the badlands. Oh, Paulie. What did I almost do to you? What might I still do if you use that cube?_

His whole body shook at the notion – his fucking knees were trembling -- and Macca saw it. “Can’t even bear the thought, love,” Lennon explained in a whisper, holding on to Paul’s hand, clinging to it with both of his own.

“No, I can’t either,” Paul agreed, drawing his head near to his partner’s. “Johnny, if I ever had to relive all that… I couldn’t, love. I _wouldn’t_. I’d kill myself if it all started happening, even if it was just in my head, even if I somehow knew it wasn’t real. I’d kill myself before I’d go through it again.” He stood up straight, his voice resolute as he repeated the words. “I _would_ kill myself.”

John paled, tears suddenly springing to his eyes as he looked up, grabbing Paul’s shoulder. “Paulie! Never say that, lad. _Never say it_. I’d die right with you.”

Paul’s face creased in misery, showing a moment of almost palpable pain that John was sure was connected to a memory of that night, come up all unbidden in the midst of their words. The lad bit down hard on his lip, shaking his head as though doing battle in it.

“I need you to know I am never going to drop acid with you, Johnny. Not ever. I will never willingly take that shit, do you hear?”

“I hear you, Macca,” John was nodding in furious agreement. “I get it.”

“Do, John,” Paul’s frown was still a hard one. “I want you to stop pestering me about it, all right? It stops now, or it’s going to destroy things between us.”

Lennon’s shoulders dropped in what looked like complete surrender. “I promise you, love, I’ll never ask you again.”

It was Paul’s turn to nod, and he did, the tip of his tongue playing at his lip, as though he was deciding whether there was anything more to say. But there wasn’t. “I need to go get ready. Goin’ out with Jane tonight, to tell her everything, you know.”

“Good luck with that,” John barked out a laugh that sounded only half there.

“First, though, I mean to ask around, find out if any others were dosed last night, from that table. I’m sure some stupid ass thought he was being funny, or cool, or ‘sophisticated’ or something,” Paul could not hide the contempt in his voice, “Openin’ up a man like John Dawson to all that.” 

“If you’re sure it was the champagne, then you should,” John remarked with a forced casualty. “Where’s dinner with Little Red, then, love,” asked as Paul settled into the car, key in the ignition.

“We’ve reservations at that quiet little Polish restaurant you and I have been too. Can’t pronounce the name.”

“Oh, I like that place,” John smiled down at his partner. “What time should Cyn and I join you?”

Paul shook his head with a rueful grin. “Any other time, you’d both be welcome, but I need to let Jane be mad on me for a little bit before she melts over Michelle. Anyway, isn’t eight o’clock bedtime for Jules?”

“Aye, I was only playin’” John knocked at the roof of the car in farewell. “I’m actually out myself, tonight. _Out replacing a bowl of sugar cubes while you and that little snob have a_ _Kotlet schabow But I will never tell you that._ _“_ Have fun, Paulie, love. Call me tomorrow, yeah? I want to see you.”

Paul closed the door, giving his partner a wink and a smile, with a thumbs up to say he’d heard, and then pulled out.

“Christ, Christ, mother-lovin’ _Christ,_ ” John muttered to himself as he stormed toward the house. “You couldn’t have fucked things up more if you’d tried, Lenny…” All he could do now was hope Paul didn’t decide to make himself a cup of tea before his date. His partner’s words were echoing through Lennon’s head, haunting him. “There was no perverse bastard looking to dope him up on purpose …” John could hear Paul’s judgement and his disgust, “Some stupid ass who thought he was being funny, or cool….”

 _That’s me. I’m the perverse bastard_ , John told himself. _I’m the stupid ass_.

“Alright, love,” Cyn asked as she passed John in the hallway, while carrying Julian. She noted the look of him, wild-eyed, pale and out of breath. “What’s wrong, John?”

He stared at the two of them for a moment, barely able to hide the prickles running up and down his spine at all he’d just comprehended about his plans, his foolish, foolish plans, and the miserable failure of a man he _still_ was, despite all of his best intentions. He deserved none of it – not Cyn and Jules, not this house, nor his success. And never, never did he deserve the love – or the trust -- of Paul McCartney.

“I’m a fuck-up, Cyn, that’s all,” he half-snarled in her direction as he headed back to the bedroom, two steps at a time. “I’m the King of Assholes, the Supreme Leader. I don’t know why any of you stay with me.”

***

Macca had stopped by the concierge on the way up to his flat, asking Trevor to confirm delivery of two dozen pink roses to Jane Asher that he’d ordered earlier. “And Trev, can I ask, were they any troubles in the building last night? Any illness or…I don’t know, just people sayin’ something was ‘off’ as they came ‘round this morning?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” the young man answered with a frown, “is there anything specific you have in mind?”

“Well, with the food and the drinks down here, last night, maybe” Paul tried. “Any complaints? Anyone saying there were issues?”

“No, indeed, sir. All of our residents seemed quite pleased, all-in-all. Oh, and I have another message left for you, sir.” He handed Paul a courier’s envelope. “I had to sign for it, this time.” He held the parcel back for a moment, his head tilted, as he blinked oddly. “On second thought, I suppose you might say there were complaints that the drinks needed crystal glasses to taste their best,” he smiled, trying to make it playful, and failing. “I know I thought so.”

“Aye, I suppose I would too,” Paul agreed, taking the package off him and utterly ignoring the lorry-sized flirtation thrown his way.

He was frowning, biting his lip a little as made his way to the flat, wondering why the concierge would reference the paper cups so particularly, and whether Trevor seemed the sort of fellow who would think to make mischief by randomly spiking drinks with something as potent as LSD. He’d just opened the door to catch the man buzzing him, confirming that the roses had been delivered to Jane with the previous hour.

No, Trevor was a very thorough, very conscientious chap, in Paul’s assessment. _Not the sort to do such a contemptable, anti-social thing. Even if he can’t bat his eyes at me worth a damn_.

Distracted, feeling suddenly weary after such a long, prolonged night of lunacy and sorrow, he tossed both coat and parcel on to the couch and headed to the bedroom to wash his hands and perhaps have a quick nap. As he lathered up, he caught his reflection in the mirror and, recalling a moment of profound clarity from the night before, smiled hugely. “ _There_ you are, Macca,” he cocked his head and winked. “Getting better, yeah?”

He was. He knew it for sure, now. Amid all of last night’s miseries, one good thing (one unthinkable, surprising, but truly good thing) had happened, and Paul was clinging to it gratefully, because he saw it as a knowledge truly constructive -- a foundational truth upon which he could forgive himself, and build his recovery, and perhaps the whole reclamation of his life, too.

He’d not told John – would never tell him – just how intense things had become with John Dawson as his harrowing experience with the drug played out. _Well, it’s nothing to do with John, or even with me, for that matter_ , Paul thought to himself as he crawled on to his bed and nestled into the pillows. _It’s entirely John Dawson’s business, and it will stay with him, won’t it?_

Yes, it would.

“ _Neddy,_ ” the detective had called him, his eyes round as platters and looking a little spooked. “Neddy, my lad… _my sweet love.”_

Macca had actually looked around for a moment, trying to follow Dawson’s line of vision until finally realizing that it was all toward himself – that the cop was looking directly at Paul McCartney and seeing nothing but his doomed love, Edward.

Neddy.

 _It must have been the hair_ , Paul thought now. The big man, calming from his first terrifying episode, had been playing with his dark hair, fascinated, with that weird tactile enhancement that seemed to come with every dose of acid, or at least those Paul had observed. Dawson had been cooing at the younger man’s soft waves and rearranging his hair, the big rough palms pushing it off Macca’s forehead and brushing it back. Paul was finding it amusing, and even a little sweet, given his friend’s massive size, until the cop became suddenly – and fully -- in the presence of the gentle young police auditor for whose brutal rape and murder John Dawson had been blaming himself these past twenty years.

“Oh, Neddy,” Dawson had said, both of his hands balled into fists, drawn to his big, barrel chest, as though they meant to keep his heart from bursting through. “Neddy…” After a moment both hands went to his mouth as a long groan of utter agony escaped him and tears began to fall like a hard rain. He reached out one hand, fingertips barely touching Paul’s lips, skimming over them before pulling away. “You’re _real_. You’re really here. Oh, Ned…”

And then John Dawson simply crumbled, his head going to his lap, his face buried in his hands as he wept as ugly as Paul had ever seen a man – or any woman – weep. It was horrible to witness, and he sat there, helpless, with no idea what to do, while the giant cop went into an emotional freefall, loud and intense, full of grief, regret, and a very naked sense of guilt.

 _Jesus, what do I do?_ Paul worried. His first reaction was a stupid one, as (he believed) all of his first reactions, to anything, were. At his mother’s death, his first thought had been of money. And now, in the face of this huge man’s, overwhelming grief, his first thought was to find his handkerchief again and thrust it roughly into Dawson’s hands. As though catching snot and tears in a civilized manner mattered amid such human turmoil. His own eyes filled and he winced for his friend’s sake. _What do I do? Mum! What do I do -- show me, show me how to help him? Please show me!_

His mind reeled back to catch a memory of the only time John Dawson had mentioned Ned. They’d been in a pub – the first night Paul had been out anywhere since the rape, and he’d felt secure with Dawson there. Over beers, the two men had bonded a little, but it all went deeper when [the copper came out to Paul after the younger man had asked](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/57199693). Slowly, painfully, the cop had lain out the story of finding and losing the love of his life, over the course of just a few short years.

“What was his name, then, John,” Paul had asked.

Dawson smoked, a faraway look in his eye. “Edward, since you’ve guessed. I called him Ned."

“And you loved him.”

“I still do…”

Paul had listened closely, encouragingly. Had taken his friend’s hands into his own and heard him out, and then he’d reassured him the big cop that whatever had been gone lacking in his care of Ned -- entirely due to the times, and circumstances well beyond anyone’s control -- he’d still _been there_ for his lover, and that Ned would forgive whatever sins of omissions Dawson might accuse himself of. Of course he would.

“You’re very like him, in his person and spirit, you know,” the cop had shared. “You’ve no idea how often you’ve broken my heart in the short time we’ve known each other, because of it.” He’d sipped his beer and shaken his head. “I swore I would do anything I could for you, Paul, to make up for all I couldn’t do for Neddy.”

The words had profoundly moved McCartney, and with all the sincerity within him, he’d declared himself honored if that was true, and, “if you helped me for the sake of your Ned, then you served us both.” He’d squeezed Dawson’s hand. “And if all of this had to happen, for some reason… then know this, John Dawson: I am proud to have been Ned’s proxy.”

And _that_ , it occured to Paul, was the thing to do, now. Watching his friend, crushed, weeping into his handkerchief and unable to rightly reason through no fault of his own, the thought couldn’t be ignored: Be Ned’s proxy. Say the words this broken man has needed to hear for two decades, tenderly, lovingly. _Be Ned’s proxy…._

 _“John…”_ he began, and then stopped _. Johnny? Did Ned call him Johnny?_ He didn’t know, but it felt too near, too much like he’d be talking to Lennon if he used the name, _and that would just be so fucked up and confusing,_ Paul thought. He’d stick to ‘John,’ then.

Leaning forward, he had stroked lightly at Dawson’s head, brushing just the tips of his fingers through the thinning hair, tracing an outline of the man’s ear and then drawing his lips near. “John,” he tried out a soothing half-whisper, wondering what Neddy had sounded like. “Hush now, love, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.” 

Dawson’s response was a long groan of words, utterly unintelligible, wrecked with sorrow. “No, darling, please, don’t be so sad. Isn’t Neddy with you, now? Isn’t Neddy before you, and loving you, now?”

A little sound, like a surprised hiccup, came from the shivering mound. Paul rubbed his back and then took the man by his huge shoulders, helping him to sit upright. “John,” he whispered again. “No more tears, now, sweetheart. Your sadness is only making me sad, too. And I don’t want to be sad with you. I want to be happy with you.”

“Neddy,” Dawson sniffed, blowing his nose and seeming like he wanted to pull himself together, if he only could, before this vision he’d so longed for. “I see you…” the voice rose into a keen, and helpless tears began once more. He reached out again, his fingers stroking Paul’s cheek. “I can feel you.” The fingers moved along his jaw before falling. “You’re here.”

Macca, not wanting to lie, but also not knowing what else to do, lifted the hand, pressing it again to his cheek. “You can touch me, John, yes.”

Dawson, after a moment’s caress, pulled his hand away again. “I don’t deserve to touch you, Ned. I don’t deserve to see you.”

“Why is that, love,” Paul frowned, expecting he knew the answer. “Why do you think that?”

“Because I…” Dawson’s voice grew impossibly small for such a big man as he tried to speak around the guilt he’d carried for so long. “Neddy, I… I denied you. I denied… _us_. I should have, should have…” suddenly the cop was gasping for breath, unable to speak the words – the most important words of his life. “I—I—”

He was beginning to hyperventilate, and Macca, not knowing what else to do, literally threw himself against the man, pressing him back against the couch, so his chest could open, his hands pinning Dawson’s shoulder’s back. It was like trying to hold back a mountain. “Breath, love,” he whispered, climbing on to the man and wrapping his arms about him, bringing him close. “Breathe for Neddy, John.

“Can’t,” Dawson wept, shaking his head.

“ _Can_ ,” Paul insisted, smiling to himself. “Deep breaths, lovie, I’ll take them, and you take them with me.” He inhaled deeply, right near John Dawson’s ear, and then exhaled, purposely exaggerating his own respiration, the rise and fall of his own chest against the cop’s. “Like, that, darling,” he encouraged, “breathe for Neddy, will you?” He repeated his big breath and this time Dawson followed suit. He wrapped his big, bearish arms around the lad and breathed.

 _Cor, he could be his own ride at a carny_ , Paul marveled as he felt himself lift a tiny bit on the strength of Dawson’s inspiration. _A human air ship ride_.

“Again,” he ordered, very gently into his friend’s ear, breathing deep – rather enjoying the odd sense of being raised higher simply by hanging on -- and then blowing it all out. “You’re doing so good, John,” he praised the cop. “So, good for me. There, do you feel it? You can breathe now…” He felt Dawson nod his head and the simplicity and innocence of it nearly made Paul melt for his sake.

“Now,” he hugged John Dawson closely, wrapping his arms around his neck and basically sitting on his lap – his immense chair of a lap – to keep him close, and consoled. He’d seen enough of the man’s grief, and preferred to witness it no more. “Now, John, talk to me-- talk to your Neddy, will you? While you have him…”

The detective moaned again, but this time he did not crumble. He tightened his hold, nuzzling the younger man’s cheek with his own. Paul felt a soft buss, a tiny little kiss to his temple and closed his eyes tightly. _He’s just kissed Ned, a sweet little kiss_. He reassured himself. _You’re okay. That’s nothing to do with you. Just go with it. This isn’t about hurting you. It’s not about you at all. It’s about him, and about his Ned_.

“Ned?” Dawson’s deep voice was re-emerging, low and soft. And then nothing. Paul’s body rode another huge sigh.

“Use your words, John,” he prompted, lightly stroking the older man’s head. “Say what you need, yeah? Give Neddy your words, will you?”

At that the copper growled, as though he was ripping his thoughts, his language, from a deep and hidden place. _A cavern_ , Paul thought. _Every mountain has its caves..._

“I’m so sorry,” Dawson breathed, his voice still small. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

Macca waited, but nothing else came, so he corrected the cop. “You came right away, though, love. As soon as they called you.”

“No, I--” A nod of the head. “I came as fast as I could,” his arms were squeezing the breath out of Paul and the detective had his mouth buried at the lad’s neck, hot and moist. “I did, but then I—I.”

“You held my hand,” Paul reminded him. “You came, John, and you held Neddy’s hand. In front of everyone you held his hand.”

“Should have done more, though…” The phrase was wet with remorse.

“What more could you have done, love,” Paul whispered, squeezing his eyes against a surge of sympathy that was threatening tears. “You did what you could.”

“No, I didn’t--” Dawson’s body was shuddering, sounding a shame note Macca knew all too well, himself. Gently, he turned his head and planted a little kiss upon him, just grazing the top of his friend’s ear.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of, John,” Paul said, giving an absolution he thought was fairly earned. “There was _nothing_ you could have done.” Another kiss, sweet, soft, and all unconscious. Paul’s only thought was to reassure.

“I was _dying_ , John,” he breathed. And the words made him gasp because they were all to true, and too much a part of his own story. He pressed his eyes closed again, willing away the image of John Dawson carrying himself out of the bathroom, feverish and bleeding and pale.

“ _Neddy_ was dying,” he corrected, with emphasis. “Your Ned needed you at that moment, and you were there. You were there for Ned, love.”

“I should have--” Another long shuddery pause as the words came up from that deep cave. “I should have told you I loved you, then. I—” and here came the tears again. “I let you die without saying it. I let you die without saying ‘I love you,’ and you needed to hear it. You deserved to hear it. In front of everyone, all those faces looking on, as though you were the morning’s entertainment, you deserved it. To know you were loved.”

“John, John,” Paul’s tender heart was just breaking for his friend. He unlocked his grip and moved back, taking John’s face between his hands, “Listen to me, sweetheart, listen to me, oh, John, please, please, stop crying.” His thumbs wiped the cops tears away, even as more fell. So many tears.

“John, _listen_.” Macca repeated, gazing into John’s eyes.

“Neddy…” John Dawson obeyed, and his eyes became filled with wonder as once more he touched the face before him. For a moment he seemed to simply drink in the view with an expression of deep joy, of utter and complete adoration. It was very clear that he was seeing his Neddy, really seeing him, in Paul’s place. “Neddy, love…”

“Yes. _Yes_ , and now listen to Neddy, John,” Paul smiled sweetly at him, a small lift of the lips, his eyes warm with feeling. _What is happening here_ , he wondered. It was almost as though he really was, somehow, channeling Dawson’s dead lover -- as though Ned was there, driving his words, and he, Paul, was a mere bystander, or a channel, a conduit of… of something graceful and good.

“John,” Paul held the cop’s eyes, “do you think I didn’t know it,” he asked in a gentle voice. “That you loved me? Or that I had ever doubted it?” He stroked John’s face again, this time leaning in, pressing his lips to the man’s cheeks, and then to each eye. “Do you think you held my hands in front of all those people and I didn’t feel it? Loved, John, truly _loved_. And yes, before all those curious faces, you _loved_ me.”

“I still do…my young lad, so much.”

“And I…” Paul pulled himself back again, deliberately got out of the way of the words, because they belonged elsewhere. “Neddy loves you, John.” He bent in and placed a warm, chaste, but lingering kiss on Dawson’s lips and then wrapped his arms around him, once more. “Your Neddy loves you, still.” He could feel the big hands pushing him back, needing to see him again, and then they were caressing Paul’s cheeks, and John Dawson was returning the kiss, sweetly, softly, gentle in the way only a big man could be gentle, because he was so consciously, needfully careful. _It’s how he kissed Ned_ , Macca reminded himself, feeling not at all unsafe or threatened as the embrace lingered. _He’s kissing Ned, now. You’re alright, just let it go. Let him have this._

And then, sighing in deep contentment, Dawson pressed Paul’s head to his shoulder, and there they remained for what felt, to Paul, like a very long time. He wasn’t minding it. It was nice, actually, to simply lean against someone, feel the breath, let a hand, a big, sweetly gentle, caressing hand stroke away at his shoulders, and down his spine. Nice to rock a big, weary, grief-stricken man in his arms and know the comfort was something he wanted to give, to someone who really needed it. And sometimes they would kiss – small, loving kisses, initiated either way, and each time Paul would say, “Neddy loves you, John,” and John would nod and speak his name, “Neddy, my Neddy, my beautiful boy…”

So content, so detached was Paul feeling, that when Dawson once more groaned out the name of his beloved, sounding deliriously in love as he kissed Macca’s hand and then pressed it down into his lap, Paul’s instinctive draw back lasted only a moment. He’d quickly pulled his hand away, but after a breath, those words came again, _you’re alright, this is nothing to do with you…be a proxy for Ned_. 

“Neddy loves his John Dawson,” Paul said again, cupping the cop’s arousal, permitting his friend to cover his hand and press his face to his neck, his lips to Macca’s collarbone. “Neddy,” the groan was carnal and needy, and yet it struck Paul as having something innocent at its root, a long-buried need for a trusted touch – for tenderness and solace gone too long unprovided, by anyone. Touch too long missed, especially, by the young lover who mattered most and who, against everything sane and rational in the world, was now there, present to the detective, and cognizant of all the man had been denied in his hard and hidden life. 

“Show me,” Paul gulped, deciding he could do this. He could let himself be kissed, could let John Dawson have this, when he’d had so little of Ned, they’d had so little time together. He gasped a bit as John’s hand began to move his, folding his fingers over a breathtaking erection and pressing down. “Christ,” Dawson gasped.

“Neddy loves you…” Paul said it again and again as Dawson’s hand moved his own. After a bit, Dawson removed his hand, drawing Macca by his hips, fully against himself, once more burying his face in the lad’s neck, and moving -- so very lightly -- against him.

And that’s when Paul made an executive decision. He wasn’t about to be dry humped by an LSD-addled friend, no matter how much he loved him. _This is for Dawson, and it’s for Neddy, and not me. I’m just the whatsit. Conduit. But no grinding the conduit_.

With great care, undid John Dawson’s belt and, shaking his head, because he really couldn’t believe he was doing it, -- _but he’s done so much for me, and he’s missed his lad so much, for so long_ \-- took the detective in hand. To his own way of thinking, the action was something of a relief, allowing Paul to put a distance between himself and Dawson, detaching him, shielding him from the soft rolling of hips, the press of big hands against his own ass.

“It’s alright, John,” he whispered again. “Neddy loves y--” He barely finished the phrase before he felt the warm crawl of Dawson’s release in his hand, heard the soft, “Ned, oh, love, oh my love,” pass his lips as he rode it out, clinging to Paul’s hips, and chanting his lover’s name over and over, through the very last tremor. As Dawson softened, growing flaccid in his hold, Paul felt all of it in a state of near wonder: the release, the gasping declaration, the needfulness of love held too long below the tide, drowned in a foam of guilt and grief… and the chance for closure, finally pulled to shore.

He had helped his friend to orgasm, and Paul knew he should feel strange about it, but he didn’t. All he felt was empathy for his long-suffering friend, and an overwhelming sense of knowing something new -- that love was a mystery, and a gift, and too precious a thing to over-analyze. _There is no victim here_ , he thought to himself, _except John Dawson’s own needless victimhood of regret_.

The thought seized him. It felt not just correct, but just. As though it had come from something greater than himself, something that understood everything Paul McCartney could not. _No one is to blame, here_ , he thought. _There is no blame_.

“Don’t go, Ned,” John Dawson plead, whispering it into Paul’s temple. “Don’t leave me...”

 _Christ… How is ‘don’t leave me’ the refrain of my life, the song I hear wherever I go,_ Macca thought to himself, but it came with a soft chuckle, and no bitterness, as he wondered how to detach himself from the big man’s embrace and, more importantly, wash his hands. _How does Neddy say ‘let me go wash up, Big Cop?’_

He was very delicate about it. “Rest now, do,” he whispered to John Dawson, whose eyes were still closed in what looked like absolute bliss. He rose from his lap, placing a little kiss on the man’s forehead. “Stay with Ned a minute longer, John. You take your rest now.”

Hurrying to his bathroom, Paul turned on the water, as hot as he could stand it, and thrust both hands under the faucet with soap. _That is… a lot_ , he marveled quite clinically. _But he’s been holding that in for a long time, I guess._

It was only after drying his hands that Paul noticed he was sporting quite an impressive erection of his own, tenting his trousers to their limit. At some point in evening he’d gone hard, really hard, but he knew that it had nothing at all to do with desire, because he did not desire John Dawson, and never had.

 _Friction_ , he thought, remembering [Fr. Sean’s words to him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090831/chapters/65157673), when he’d confessed all of his horror, all of his self-loathing, for having gone hard while he was being raped. _“_ _Our biology is brilliant in most respects but stupid in some, son, and never moreso than when it comes to the whole business of rubbing and release…”_

He’d not really processed the priest’s words that night, but he decided now that Fr. Sean was right. And he could accept that notion of the body being too stupid to take so seriously. _Like right now, when I’m all up and buck for the great sin of having compassion on someone I’ve no notion of ever fucking._

_Like in 1964, when we’d finished our set on the Sullivan show and there I was, in front of God and 70 million Americans[sporting a full-on cockstand,](https://waveofahand.tumblr.com/post/640049985521582080/cmon-paul-put-that-thing-away) for no other reason than I’d been excited -- exhilarated? -- beyond my own realization. _

_Or that ‘Round Up’ interview_ , here came a memory that stung. _Suffering through the stiffie from hell for the entire televised interview with Morag, who was a pretty girl, but… really?_ He still had no idea what had happened there, why his willie had sprung up and remained a pest the whole damn day. _While John silently teased me and taunted me with his own body language_. The band had never let him live it down, and to this very day, he couldn’t say what had inspired that particular uprising.

Recalling all the boners he’d thrown without intention, Paul regarded his trousers with a touch of humor. "Well, hello. Haven't seen you in a long time." With a shrug and a squeeze, he unzipped, taking himself in hand. “Like a meerkat up from the hole, you are,” he said to his cock. He'd felt so distanced from this part of himself for so long, he realized. 

Without thinking about it, Macca began to examine himself, cupping his balls and stroking his length, just to watch his own sexual process. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at himself, studied what was happening. _Probably have had a thousand birds, and John and all, and how is it I never look down_? But of course, his eyes were usually closed, or he was looking at his lover of the moment, or – more frequently than he cared to admit – was simply lost in his own head, bringing up stories and images, even snatches of poems, that had been compellingly erotic to him all his life.

But now, here he was, standing his bathroom, nothing remotely sexy on his mind – nothing driving this erection but plain biology -- and as he touched himself, tracing his lines and circles, he could see his body responding, naturally, brainlessly, blood further engorging his prick, his urethra’s hole beginning to open and close like a needy little gasper, leaking a thin stream of what would come up later, would pulse from him like a thick, erupting lava, if he just kept doing what he was doing – touching, rubbing, stroking, jerking.

Paul had been watching himself with such an interested and experimental eye that he nearly jumped when he came into his own hand, and with such force. _And that’s a lot also_ , he thought, remembering John Dawson’s impressive output. _But then, it’s been a long while for me, too_. _And here we are. The body doing what the body does._

He understood it now, as he hadn’t been able, or willing, to understand it before. The natural process of a crazy body that threw boners when there was no reason at all to do it, but also when there was rubbing, and touching and sucking, whether desired or not. _A process_ , he said to himself, _and that’s all it bloody is_. “Glands,” John Dawson had tried to reassure him, weeks ago. “The body doing the stupid shit it does,” preached Fr. Sean.

Washing his hands once more, Paul McCartney felt a huge weight roll off of him – he imagined it falling off his shoulders and running down his arms, to his hands and then down the drain, with all the soap and grime, and sweat and ear wax and spit, and every other bit of what was natural to the body and ended up there. He rinsed off the lather, smiling all the while, though he didn’t know it. For the first time since coming down the throat of a perverted bastard, he felt… _clean_. Almost shiny with it. As he shook the wet from his hands, Paul McCartney spied himself in the mirror and stopped to _look_ – really daring to seek out his own reflection for the first time in what felt like ages. He watched his lips part and his white teeth appear, as a slow but authentic smile crept into view.

“There you are, Macca,” he said to himself in welcome. “And you’re to blame for none of it.”

A revelation. A release. A relief. He was blameless, and so there could be no more shame, could there? _Thank God, thank you for the understanding. I was blind and now I see. And next I see Sean, I’ll have to ask him what he thinks about how a good thing – a nearly miraculous small good thing -- can come about, even amid something bad. Or through it._

Returning to the sitting room, he found John Dawson staring at the carpeting, his face expressionless until he saw Paul enter. “There you are,” Dawson drawled. “You were gone for so long.”

Macca decided time was a construct and never more so than on this night. “No, love, I was gone but a minute,” he lied, but gently. Taking a knee, chatting in an upbeat tone all the while, he pulled his friend’s clothing back together in such an efficient and matter-of-fact manner that the cop didn’t even seem to notice.

“How are ya,” Paul smiled.

Dawson blinked at him a few times, as though trying to focus. He was seeing Ned, whose face would morph into Paul McCartney’s, and then into the face of a young front desk manager at the hotel.

“Who are you,” he frowned.

“I’m Paul. Paul McCartney.” Macca, guessing that the acid was beginning to work its way out of Dawson’s brain, decided to encourage reality. He chucked him on the shoulder. “Who’d you think, ye git?”

Dawson shook his head, looking at the cold tea service from hours earlier and squinting a little. “Everything is so strange.”

“Did you want tea,” Paul noted his gaze. “Happy to make some fresh for you.”

“No, no, I don’t think so.” The cop was working his jaw and tongue, though, as though he was low on saliva. Paul brought water for both of them, and placed the glass carefully in Dawson’s hand. “D’ye think you can sleep,” he asked.

“What the hell, son, your face keeps slipping around. Stop it.”

“You’ll be well soon, John Dawson,” Paul promised, chuckling a bit as he took a seat on a hassock nearby.

“You’re Paul, then,” Dawson was looking at him closely, almost suspiciously. “You’re not Neddy?”

“What do you think,” Paul smiled at him, bringing his face close and turning it this way and that for examination.

It took a few minutes of study before the cop was sure. “You’re Paul,” he decided.

“Well, you don’t have to sound so disappointed about it!”

“Nah, nah, it’s just…” He shook his head, running a hand through it, still feeling a bit nonplussed. “Just… thought I’d… I thought Ned was here, talking to me.”

“He was, John,” Paul squeezed his hand and met Dawson’s eyes, nodding. “Neddy was here. And you both said what you needed to. And it was lovely to see.”

“You watched?”

“Aye… I watched you.”

“Oh…”

Paul reached over to a chair, pulling Theodore out from under a newspaper and handing it off to the copper, who looked like he needed it. “Here you go. Why don’t you let old Theodore keep you company for a little bit, yeah? While you come back to yourself?”

“He’s _soft_ ,” Dawson noticed, immediately taking his hand to the doll’s fur.

“Aye, he is.”

Dawson’s hand traveled to the rather coarse tweedy vest George had bought him. He made a face. “This isn’t soft. I don’t like this.”

“It doesn’t feel as nice,” Paul nodded with a smile, his face resting in one hand as he smoked.

“Yeah,” the cop agreed, his hand going back to the furry legs and arms, while Macca simply watched. He was exhausted, but not willing to leave John Dawson alone until he felt sure the man was mostly recovered. Just now, he was holding Theodore like a baby in need of a burping, patting the bear’s back softly. “Would you play me something,” he asked Paul. “On the piano?”

That would do. _No music hall songs, not drinking songs, nothing about a damn hammer making sure anyone’s dead_ , he thought. _Let’s not trigger another round of carnage._ Instead, Macca sat at the piano and played all the old songs he knew, the war-time ballads and songs Dawson and Ned might have known. He stumbled into the American Songbook idea that Fr. Sean had introduced – _“I’ll be seeing you, in all the old, familiar places…”_ – and played, but didn’t sing it. He didn’t want to overstimulate his friend as he seemed, finally, to be coming ‘round. 

Hours later, lost in his own keyboard noodling, Paul looked up to find John Dawson, finally asleep, his arms wrapped around Theodore, _the most useful gift John Lennon ever gave me_ , he yawned, _and he stole that, din’t he?_ He laid a blanket over the big man, and headed off to his own rest.

They’d both overslept. Paul awoke to the sound of John Dawson stumping around the flat, cursing from bathroom to kitchen, muttering under his breath about being late, and having a headache, and being late. And thirsty.

“How’re you, love,” he said as he’d found the coffee and quickly thrown a pot together.

“Lysergic acid diethylamide,” Dawson pronounced, “is the drug of fools and maniacs. And you can tell young Lennon I said so.”

“Gladly,” Paul chuckled. “I’ve said it a hundred times already, but maybe it will mean more coming from you.”

“Christ, I’ve got to go, I’m late.”

“You’ll have a few swallows of coffee first, yeah. Before you drive yourself anywhere?”

Knowing that bossy tone for what it was, and resigned to it, Dawson plopped down heavily enough to make the kitchen chair groan. He looked up, raising one eyebrow at Paul. “Did I make you walk around dead bodies last night?”

“And brains, and such, yes,” the younger man nodded.

“So, it was all real.”

“Was it?” Paul poured out two cups, deciding he’d take it black this morning, too, and placed one before the detective. “Some of it was real, you know, and some of it wasn’t.”

“Well, _obviously_. But… so much happened, all in my head. And I can’t tell where reality started or ended.”

Paul shrugged, making one of those, ‘what can I say’ faces. “I can’t see where it matters, really. So, reality and hallucination met, and yet the sun has arisen once more; the page is turned and it’s a whole new year, yeah? I mean, you did make me jump over dead bodies. That was real. But the bodies weren’t. I guess you just keep what you liked of last night -- what seemed real, if you liked it -- and throw the rest away.”

Dawson, gulping down coffee even as he was rising, looked as though he’d need to consider that for a while. 

“And now I remember what I wanted to tell you last night,” Paul said as he helped the bigger man into his overcoat. “I don’t envy you the life you’ve had, John. I couldn’t have lived it.” He looped a scarf around the surprised-looking cop as he continued. “But I admire you for being willing to walk where there is horror, and for trying to make sense of it, to sort it out… fix what is broken in the world, when it’s the world itself’s what’s broken, isn’t it? And every one of walking about, too.”

He adjusted the cop’s collar with a firm tug, setting everything just so, and then handed Dawson his hat, smiling up at him. “We’re all goin’ about carryin’ what’s broken in ourselves, ain’t we? Just looking for anyone who can help us carry it, ‘til it’s fixed, if it ever can be. You’re a good man, John Dawson. I am proud that you let me be your friend, and that you consent to be mine.”

“Paul, that’s…” the detective looked at him for a moment and as eyebrows rose, his face seemed to open up with understanding. “That’s quite a speech. Thank you.”

He pulled Macca into a huge hug, which Paul returned with equal force, and they stayed like that for a long, pregnant moment, nothing left to say. As they separated, Dawson seemed like he didn’t know what to do next. He simply stood, mute, and staring down at McCartney.

Paul, trained in Irish gabbery, filled in the silence, putting a friendly arm around the cop as he opened the door. “I’ll walk you to the lift,” he said, quickly launching into a story. “You know, me mum wasn’t much of a cook. A fine nurse mind you,” he said pointedly, “but not much for following a recipe. In her mind, if it called for something she didn’t like, like garlic, she’d omit it – just leave it out. She’d only put the ingredients she liked in the thing, and then she’d be puzzled why a supper or a stew didn’t taste as good as she remembered.”

“I don’t know that I’ve ever heard anything good about Irish cooking,” Dawson mused.

“Ah, sod off, you ruddy big Englishman, with your stringy roasts.”

“Well, but why are you telling me this?”

“I don’t know,” Paul answered, shrugging as he pressed the call button. “I guess I’m wondering whether she just was thinkin’ about it wrong. That whatever it was she was plannin’ to make, as soon as she threw out what she didn’t like, she wasn’t really making the thing she thought, was she? The recipe of only acceptable things became something entirely itself, had its own flat taste. Deserved its own recipe card, even if no one ever liked it, yeah?” He looked up at the floor counter as the arrival bell rang. “I mean… sometimes, you just need to go along with it and use the garlic, aye?”

“This is why you’re an artist and I’m a cop,” Dawson decided as the doors opened and he stepped inside. “Because only an artist could come up with something that oblique and make it sound profound. And because someone needs to keep an eye on you, McCartney,” he warned, grinning. “Because deep down, despite that angel face, you’re a complete subversive.”

Paul chortled back at him warmly, raising his hand in farewell. “Happy new year, Big Cop. Get some rest.”

He walked back into his flat humming a lilting, happy tune. He locked the door behind him – but only the once – and, feeling pretty good about the day before him, went whistling into the shower.

Eleven floors below, a distracted John Dawson tipped his hat in greeting and walked past the morning concierge. The lad failed to see it as he was busily signing a chitty and accepting yet another envelope, _Special Delivery_ , awaiting the attention of “Mr. James Paul McCartney, MBE”.

**THIS IS THE END OF BOOK ONE;[PROCEED HERE TO BEGIN BOOK TWO](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478873/chapters/72413073), WHICH PICKS UP ON THE VERY NEXT DAY.**


	50. Go To BOOK TWO: "HELLO, GOODBYE"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> End of Book One. This story continues, beginning on the very next day, as BOOK TWO, entitled ["HELLO, GOODBYE"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478873/chapters/72413073). Because Paul is putting himself back together, "Hello, Goodbye" will necessarily be more sexually explicit. It will also be traumatizing (again, differently) for all of the Beatles, but especially for Paul. Also, someone will die, by violence. It will end after the summer concert in the United States.

Please continue this story with Book Two: ["Hello, Goodbye"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478873/chapters/72413073), wherein Paul begins a process of touching and feeling and touching some more as he starts to assess just how much of his sexual mojo has been recovered since his horrific ordeal. Meanwhile, John's bad judgement continues as his own PTSD starts showing itself, and he's hurting everyone he loves, especially Paul.

It's just the new year, but there are all sorts of things piling up that no one is paying attention to, especially not Paul McCartney, who is distracted by sex, distracted by bad memories, distracted by the daughter he misses madly, and more. As we know, it is never a good thing when Paul is too distracted.


End file.
